


Honey-tongued

by too_much_pressure_for_a_username



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Angst and Porn, Eventual Fluff, Guilt, M/M, Major Commitment Issues, Noodle is awesome, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Paula Cracker (mentionned), Phase Four (Gorillaz), Possibly Unrequited Love, Praise Kink, Sappy, Self-Loathing, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, so fucking sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 14:04:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/too_much_pressure_for_a_username/pseuds/too_much_pressure_for_a_username
Summary: Murdoc and 2D are in a non-committed, purely sexual relationship. A confession slips out.





	1. Chapter 1

He tangles his hands lightly into your bright blue locks, looks with amazement at the effortless way they fall through his fingers. You can’t help but chuckle at his wonder.

“Why’d you hav’ta make this kinda face, Muds? ‘S like you’ve never seen my hair before.”

Any other time, this kind of comment would get you a glare, an off-handed “shut up, dullard”, or even a bottle thrown to your head if you were unlucky. But right now Murdoc only smiles fondly in response, further confirming that reality is not quite what it usually is when it’s just the two of you together like this.

“Doesn’t matter how often I’ve seen it before,” he mutters softly, hands coming up to cradle your cheeks tenderly. “I can never quite get used to ya, love. Yer quite a sight to behold, y’know that? Hair bluer than the sky…” He runs his thumb over your cheekbone, softly. “... Eyes darker than hell.”

His hands slide down your neck, linger a while on your shoulders before making their way down your torso. His fingernails graze a nipple and you shudder, feeling your cheeks flush. You don’t miss the way he smiles at your reaction, his expression a mix between lust and something like marvel. His eyes lazily trail down from your face to your chest, linger on your twitching cock and then move up to take in the whole shape of you. You’re more than glad he’s enjoying the view, but he hasn’t moved yet and you’re aching for it by now. You put a hand on his lower stomach to anchor yourself and start to move your hips against him, reminding him of your more urgent needs.

He gets the hint and chuckles at your eagerness, a lecherous look in his eyes as he grabs your hips and starts guiding you down onto his dick, slow and steady, an agonizing rhythm that’s not enough to push you over the edge but just enough to make you desperate for it. The pleasure builds up, a rolling, burning coil in your abdomen, filling your chest with a thousand pitiful whimpers, gasps and moans threatening to escape; you bite your lip in a futile attempt to stay quiet.

“Don’t try to keep it in, songbird” Murdoc growls authoritatively under you, frowning lightly and there must be a really fucked up reason for why you find that so terribly arousing. “Let me hear that heavenly voice of yours.”

You nod humbly and comply, even though you know the sound of your own noises always makes you so embarrassed. You feel ridiculous for it; it’s not like you’re a virgin for Christ’s sakes; but before Murdoc, you’d never known how loud you could get during sex. The soft, broken, high-pitched noises you make are so downright _filthy_ , they’d make a pornstar blush; you’re still surprised sometimes to hear them coming from _your_ throat. But Murdoc loves them, and the way they make his breath hitch and his eyes burn turns you on more than words can tell.

“There you go, love,” he purrs contentedly, lifting his hips to meet yours. “You’re doing so well, my little beauty, my gorgeous bluebird.”

“Murdoc,” you gasp out, breathless already. “Ah… f-feels so good…”

He smirks and starts moving his hips in small, slow circles and you actually scream. You can feel his cock twitching inside you, thick and burning hot against your inner walls, stretching you out to your limits, the head pressing hard against your prostate. You won’t be able to hold on long like this. He knows how sensitive you are, knows just how to push your buttons.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Murdoc says fondly. “Your hair, your pretty little face, your pretty little arse”, he spanks you lightly, making you whimper, “that girly voice of yours…”

You don’t think you look very pretty right now: your face is flushed, your scrawny body is trembling and covered in sweat, and you’re pretty sure a little bit of drool has made its way down the corner of your mouth. It doesn’t matter though, you couldn’t give less of a fuck because the way Murdoc’s looking at you like you’re the sexiest thing he’s ever seen makes you burst with pride and arousal.

“You’re so beautiful,” he goes on, voice soft and almost reverent. “Everything about you is so damn beautiful, it drives me crazy. Can’t get you off my mind; I get horny just lookin’ at you.”

The tiny rational part of your brain reminds you that this is so exaggerated it’s ridiculous --surely you’re not _that_ pretty-- but the other much larger part makes you blush and smile like an idiot and moan for more. It’s a wonder, how Murdoc’s words always have a way of getting under your skin. You’ve never been vain, never been much for appearances. Girls calling you pretty always felt like some sort of gentle, mocking insult, and the odd whistle you’d get from drunken old geezers on the street made you feel uncomfortable more than anything else.

But for some reason, when it’s Murdoc saying those things --calling you pretty, calling you beautiful as he runs his fingers over your scalp and tugs lightly at the ends of your hair-- it’s another thing entirely. It’s like those words are lighting your skin on fire; your hips buck forward of their own accord as his large hands move around your waist to cup your buttocks. You shiver and swear you can feel the delicious echoes of his compliments traveling down to your groin, mirroring the path of his fingernails lightly dragging across your ribs, your stomach, all the way down to your hips.

“Muh-Murdoc”, you stammer, and it comes out much more unsteady than you’d hoped. “I-I need… Ahhn…”

“What do ya need, bluebird?” Murdoc coos back, voice gruff and almost tender as he grabs your sensitive hipbones firmly, yet not nearly firm enough. “Speak to me, my angel, I got ya.”

You whimper and feel something like a sob in your chest, a pang, a painful twist because _it’s just not fair_ , how much of an effect he has on you. It doesn’t help that Murdoc can be particularly good with words, when the fancy strikes him; over the past few months, you’ve been called a thousand sickening pet names and terms of endearment sweeter than any you’d received in the past three decades. _Sweetheart, love, angel, songbird, blue-haired god_ … All these names just roll smoothly off Murdoc’s tongue, until they’re covering you in a sticky, honey-thick mess and you find yourself as weak and helpless as a fly stuck in a web. But you don’t mind; you never mind; you always yearn for more. It’s never enough. You want to drown in it, to choke on it.

Murdoc spoke so effortlessly too, as if there was nothing more natural for him than to shower you with praise as he fucked you till you couldn’t stand. It bothers you, that ease, that effortlessness. It only makes it too easy for you to fool yourself into thinking he actually _means_ it --that those sweet words are what pour out from his lips when there is nothing left standing between his heart and his mouth. Lovely, fluttering words coming from him as honestly and directly as song lyrics.

“I want to make ya feel good, love,” he purrs underneath you, grinding his hips against yours and making you keen loudly. “Tell me what ya need. Don’t hold that pretty voice back from me, sweetheart.”

He thrusts into you again, and a warm wave of pleasure washes over you, dissolving into little sparks of pleasure tingling at the ends of your fingers and toes. You whimper and gasp and moan your heart out, for him. When he fucks you so skillfully, so completely in control, coaxing the noises from your lips, you delude yourself into thinking he’s unraveling you and creating you anew, singing you into a song.

Sometimes you wish you were a song; _his_ song; made by him, lingering and floating in the air for a moment, just long enough to enchant his senses, before disappearing into thin air. You’d live on as a pleasant memory nested somewhere in that crooked brain of his, coming alive once in a while on the brim of his lips when he hums along to the tune of you. Murdoc loves music, has and will always love it more than he could love any being of flesh and bone. You’re pretty sure you’d be better able to make him happy if you were a song. A song doesn’t space out at the wrong time; a song isn’t stupid; a song doesn’t get jealous when you listen to other songs.

“N-need you to t-touch me more, M-Murdoc”, you gasp out, blushing at just how virginal and desperate you sound. “Please, Murdoc, I want… Want your hands all over m-me…”

He chuckles at that, low and deep in his chest. You yelp when he sits up, the shift in position making his cock press deeper into you. But then his arms come up to wrap around you, hands pressed flat against your shoulder blades, tongue licking along the sweat beads forming on your collar bone. You groan and arch into his touch, getting high off the feeling of his skin against yours, the glazed look in his eyes, the way his hands glide over your skin as if he just can’t get enough of you.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous”, he murmurs, face buried under your chin, voice cracking slightly as he speeds up his thrusts. “If I could believe in God, I wouldn’t accept any god but you. Look at yerself. D’you even know how heartbreakingly lovely you are?”

You swallow thickly, almost choking on your own spit as you start moving your hips along with his thrusts; there’s a clenching knot deep in your gut that tells you you’re close already, and it’s too soon, too soon. You don’t know if Murdoc’s waiting for an answer, but your multiple head injuries and the fact that you’re currently having the remainder of your brains fucked out make it a bit hard to focus --and really, you can't be blamed for that. Both these things are on Murdoc. 

“Satan, I wish you were mine,” he grunts between gritted teeth, and you’re taken aback by the strange hint of wistfulness in his voice. He grabs your hair roughly, yanks your head back and drags his tongue messily along the pale column of your exposed neck. You let out a strangled moan, long and drawn out until it becomes a gargled sound that could be either pain or pleasure. “Wanna hear you say it, darling. Say you’re mine, love.”

“M’ yours, Muds,” you gasp out, quite out of breath. He lightly sucks on your Adam’s apple and your whole body shivers. “I’m yours,” you say again, because hearing those words out loud makes your heart swell. There’s something bubbling up inside you, an urge stronger and even more overpowering than the need to come; you desperately want to say something, a response to Murdoc’s endless sex-fuelled praise. Something romantic, something sexy, anything, it doesn’t matter. But of course because you’re you, and you’re fucking hopeless, something stupid comes out instead.

“I love you, M-Murdoc.”

There’s a long stretch of sudden silence, and then the realization of what you just said crashes into you with the force of a car at full speed (you would know). Your heart drops into your stomach. You wish there was a wall in front of you, so you could bash your stupid head against it.

Murdoc is staring at you, eyes almost comically wide in disbelief. He’s gone still and you bite your lip nervously, torn between the unevitable knowledge that you’ve just ruined everything and the selfish hope that he’ll at least be kind enough to finish getting you off.

“M-Murdoc?” you try timidly, but he remains concerningly unresponsive and you start to panic. You cradle his head in your hands and force him to look at you. “L-Listen, I’m sorry, ok? I-I didn’t mean it, so please don’t freak out, it just slipped out…”

Your voice ends in an embarrassingly high-pitched whine when he suddenly thrusts into you without warning, much more forcefully than before. His eyes lock with you in an unnervingly straight stare. You feel like cowering under his gaze, but you can’t look away: those eyes are blazing, burning with an unfathomably dark heat. It’s desire, you suppose; it feels like desire, with the way he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you whole. But it’s something else too, something more frightening and hungrier than lust.

“2D.” His voice is incredibly steady, but there’s a tremble in his forearms that tells you he’s holding it together by a bare thread. “Say that again.”

You stare back at him in surprise, search his face for any trace of doubt, any hint that this is some sick test that’ll have you beaten and bleeding on the floor in a second if you dare repeat those words. “I-I love you…?” you say shyly, almost questioningly.

Apparently that was the right thing to say because he pushes you down roughly against the mattress, leans over you until your bodies are pressed flush together. You moan at the blissful feeling of his skin against you --warm, heavy, so close and _so good_ \-- and instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. He’s pounding into you now, hard and fast and erratic, fucking you with no rhythm or control whatsoever, but it’s ok because it makes your toes curl and you’re so close, so close.

“More,” he whispers heatedly, his forehead pressed against yours, breaths mingling. “Tell me more, love.”

You choke on air, dick twitching as he grasps it in his hand and starts stroking it roughly in time with his thrusts. “I l-love you, Muds, love you so much,” you gasp out, throwing all caution to the wind. “I’ve always loved you, s-since the first day, and every day after that, e-even when you kept me on that horrid island, I n-never stopped lovin’ you. God, Murdoc, every time you look at me, c-can’t help it, I just want you to myself, can’t get enough of you…”

You keep rambling on and on, and part of you is absolutely _mortified_ , telling yourself to _shut up shut up you idiot, you stupid fool, quit it before you fuck this up even more than you already have_ , but the other part is soaring higher than ever before, miles and miles above the ground, like a bird finally allowed to sing its heart out. And it terrifies you that you _can’t stop_ , can’t seem to silence the words spilling out from you like a too large mouthful of pain pills.

What’s more marvelous than anything though, is that Murdoc doesn’t seem to mind, seems to revel in it even, get off on it: he slams into you harder than ever before, breath coming out in short pants, eyes screwed shut when they’re usually wide open, steady and alert as they watch you unravel. Now it’s different; it seems like this time, you get to see _him_ unravel. And you try to hold your breath, keep quiet now, stifle your moans so you can better hear the noises he makes, watch his face as he comes undone in front of your eyes. It’s an amazing sight, like catching a predatory beast in a rare moment of vulnerability, and it fills you with wonder. Your heart thunders in your chest as you decide fuck it, let’s just go for it, you might never get another opportunity like this in your lifetime.

“I love you, Muds,” you say softly, almost quietly. “I’ve always loved you, and I always will.”

You feel your balls tighten and grab onto those large, strong shoulders, mouthing messily at his neck and the side of his face. Surprisingly, he turns and meets you in a kiss so passionate it takes your breath away. He twirls his tongue around yours, presses his face against you until you’re almost suffocating but you only press closer into him, hands grabbing wildly at his back, at the sides of his face, at the nape of his neck. He pulls back, swears under his breath as his whole body seizes up.

“D”, he mutters once, and then he’s coming, filling you from the inside with warmth. You take it all in, eyes wide and unblinking at his expression --it’s rare that you can enjoy this; you usually come before him and are still way too dazed to take in the sight of his orgasm. His shoulders shake, mouth gaping open in a quiet sigh of bliss. You’re mesmerised by the way his hand tenses in the sheets underneath your bodies, fingers clenching violently in the fabric.

His other hand lays splayed against the small of your back, nails digging possessively into the skin and you come harder than you ever have in your life --inevitably. Every nerve in your body seizes, every muscle as tight and taut as the strings on Murdoc’s bass; you give yourself over to him, as submissive and obedient as his beloved instrument, with a scream that tears through your entire body.

You lay there for a while after, panting lightly as the lust-fuelled fog clears from your mind. Silence creeps back into the room, like a huge heavy beast made of nothing but smoke and thin air.

Murdoc blinks a few times, dazedly, as if he’s coming to; he rolls off of you and onto the other side of the bed, awkwardly untangling himself from your lanky limbs.

This is usually the moment when you light a cigarette and smoke in comfortable silence, before drifting off into sleep.

You don’t feel like a smoke right now. You still haven’t moved. It’s like a bomb has been dropped, turning the whole world into devastated ruins, and you’re left standing in the wreckage --catatonic, shell-shocked.

Your words -- _stupid, stupid words, you knew you should’ve kept your mouth shut_ \-- are still ringing in the air, and you know Murdoc hears them too.

He doesn’t look at you, pulls the sheets slightly higher up so it covers him more; as if you hadn’t already seen it all. As if he was just now struck by how frighteningly intimate this situation is: the two of you naked in a bed together, both of your clothes in a tangled heap on the floor, the air in the room tangy with the smell of the post-coital cigarettes you’ve shared.

There are memories in this room, mostly just of impromptu shagging sessions, but memories nonetheless. You’ve been doing this for some time, four, maybe five months, at least twice or three times a week. And now you’ve gone ahead and told him you love him. Now he knows. You’re not even sure _you_ knew beforehand.

You look down at yourself, feeling even stupider than usual. What are you doing here, lying around in a bed that smells like the two of you? This is all far too… domestic. You don't know if you want this yet, but you can’t let yourself want this, that’d just be cruel. You need to get out of this room. _Get a grip, mate._

You stand up, your back turned to Murdoc as you wipe yourself off with a box of Kleenex you found on the floor and hurriedly dress yourself --god, you hope these are your clothes and not _his_.

It surprises you when you hear a shift behind you, the mattress creaking underneath the weight of Murdoc moving closer. “Oi, where you off to in such a rush?”

You can tell from the lack of smell that he hasn’t lit a cigarette, wasn’t expecting to stay in bed. If you hadn’t gotten up, he would’ve. It’s strange that you’re the one leaving first. But Murdoc doesn’t really have the right to question you about it, not when he was about to do the exact same thing.

You don’t turn to look at him, mumbling a crappy excuse to him as you slip on your sneakers. “Jus’ gonna get some breakfast at the diner.” You don’t have the faintest idea where you’re going --anywhere but the diner, probably.

“Dents, wait up--” you hear him start as you open the door.

Out of sheer panic, you slam the door with more force than necessary, the loudness of it echoing in your chest cavity. You think it's strange that your heart can feel so hollow and so heavy at the same time.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Murdoc struggles with guilt, self-loathing and unhealthy coping habits, and Noodle is a blessing from the gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I can't believe how LONG this was, I'm not used to writing multi-chaptered fics. I was planning on making this a one-shot, but you guys gave me such wonderful sweet comments that I felt like giving this a try. :) Thank you so much for the reviews, I really didn't expect this to get so much love haha.  
> This chapter is in Murdoc's POV and focuses a little more on the relationship between the bassist and the guitarist. I hope you enjoy and as always, feel free to comment for any feedback!

 

 

 You wake up feeling like shit.

You’re in your room, which would be normal if you hadn’t been spending more nights in a certain singer’s room these past few months. The bed feels alien to you, despite the fact that it’s still littered with empty glass bottles, crumpled pieces of paper and porno mags --the usual.The alarm clock on your nightstand --why’d you bother buying that thing? It’s not like you’d ever actually set an alarm for yourself-- reads 1:14 PM. You groan and turn on your side, facing away from the offending numbers. “Satan, why am I even awake this early?”

Considering the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed the night before, you’re actually surprised you’re even moving and talking right now. Your head is shockingly clear --a bit too clear for comfort. To your endless despair, you find that you remember everything from last night. Every single last detail you’d tried to erase from your memory (nothing like the help of a hearty, long drinking binge) is still etched in your mind.

Blue hair in disarray, feather-soft and strikingly bright against your dull green fingers. A heavenly voice moaning your name in strangled sobs of pleasure. Well, those memories were pleasant enough; no need to erase _them_.

_“I love you, M-Murdoc.”_

And there it was: the cause of all your sorrows. You turn again so that you’re lying flat against the mattress and your face is pressed deeply into the warm pillow. You try to resist the urge to mutter obscenities into it and fail.

_2D, you blooming fool…_

What the hell had gotten into the boy? Everything’s fine and dandy, you’re both having a grand time getting your rocks off, and then he goes and drops this bomb on you. You’re pretty sure your brain froze for at least half a minute. You’ve got to give it to the singer; after having known him for more than sixteen years, he still finds ways to surprise you.

The “confession” (you refuse to even fathom the word without picturing quotation marks around it) hadn’t been the full cause of the disaster, though. What had really fucked everything up was your reaction to it. It had all been so good, so perfect --too perfect to last, apparently.

 _It sure was sweet while it did last, though,_ you think mournfully. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’d wanted it for an embarrassingly long time. There was no way to deny how gorgeous the bloke was, and you’d always had a weak spot for pretty boys. It might’ve had something to do with that unshakeable air of purity and innocence about him; as a devout Satanist, you occasionally enjoy hunting down pure beings just to defile them with your vile claws. 2D was something else, though. You’d often marvelled at the fact that the singer could still seem so sweet and naive after all the crap he’d gone through. You tried to destroy that innocence --that infuriating prettiness-- several times, in more ways than one. You should’ve known it was a lost battle from the moment he walked away from two car accidents and an 8-ball fracture still looking as lovely as a picture. That air of purity stuck to him like wings to a doped up, severely brain damaged angel.

Because you weren’t able to destroy the bloke, or break his soul, or even make him slightly less pretty, you developed a little bit of an obsession. You might be past fifty, but deep inside you’re still every bit the same greedy little boy you once were, getting a kick out of wrecking every beautiful thing you see --and if you can’t break it, you _must_ have it.

By the time you finally got your dirty hands on him, you couldn’t even remember how long you’d wanted it. All you knew was that you’d been waiting for a long, long time. He had been too, judging by the desperate little noises he made in the back of his throat as you kissed him, the way his pretty mouth engulfed your cock as if it was a bloody lollipop. He was the best shag you’d had in a while, which wasn’t surprising. What did surprise you was the fact that you went back for more, again and again. By the next night your head had been bursting with thoughts of blue hair and sharp hip bones, and you’d been ready to go to his room when there was a knock on your door, and lo and behold, there was your little blue-haired songbird.

The shock from last night’s “confession” had hit you hard, but after the shock came more lust, lust like you had never experienced in all your long sinner’s lifetime. Then 2D had scampered from the room like a chased rabbit, and you’d crawled back to your own bedroom and tried to drink yourself into oblivion. You’re pretty sure you saw the sun come up right before you passed out, cradling an empty whiskey bottle in your arms.

In retrospect, the “confession” --and your own reaction to it-- probably shouldn’t have surprised you so much. If left to fester long enough in the dark corners of the mind, obsessions can grow to take a thousand monstrous shapes.

The foul-tasting dryness in your mouth is starting to become unbearable; for the first time in weeks, you long for a sip of water, tea, fuck, anything that’s not alcohol. You groan as you get up, the muscles in your back aching in protest. You run a hand through your hair, pick up the nearest pair of jeans from the floor and hop awkwardly into them before making your way out the door.

As you walk down the staircase you hear three distinct voices coming from the dining room. Fucking great. They’re all there having a bloody tea party, aren’t they. 2D, ever the whining idiot, is probably telling them all about his misfortunes. You’d bet your soul on it if it were still yours to barter --you can’t see any of them, but the tension is so heavy and palpable, you can feel it from where you are.

You brace yourself and walk into the room, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. Your three bandmates are sitting around the table cluttered with the remains of what looks like breakfast. The blue-haired singer is hunched over in his seat, staring dejectedly into a bowl of soggy cereal and looking very much like a kicked puppy. Russ and Noodle are sitting across from him like two parents consoling their kid after a bad day at school, looking torn between sympathy and exasperation.

Three pairs of eyes look up at you when you walk into the room. 2D’s widen comically, and you can’t help but feel slightly offended when he all but leaps from his chair and dives headfirst out the window, hitting his head on the frame and crashing loudly into the trash cans outside.

It’s easy to keep your face composed --you’ve seen him do stupider stuff, after all-- but you still resist the urge to wince.

After a few quiet moments filled only with the sound of 2D hissing in pain, Russ lets out a long-suffering sigh and gets up to go check if the idiot has given himself a concussion. He shoots you a half-hearted glare on the way out, almost threatening but mostly just tired, like he’s had to deal with decades of this bullshit. He’s not wrong.

You stand there, unsure what to do. Noodle’s looking at you, not glaring per se --that’s not her style-- but there’s definitely an accusatory tone in her dark eyes. You scratch the back of your head, feeling uncomfortable at the way those eyes seem to be pinning you the spot; she’s always had that uncanny ability to make you feel like shit, like your conscience has caught up with you. You suppose it’s got to do with the father-daughter sort of bond the two of you share.

“Mornin’,” you grunt, even though it’s past one in the afternoon. Your mouth still feels numb with sleep and the tangy taste of the whiskey you guzzled last night. You gingerly make your way to the kettle sitting on top of the kitchen counter. A nice cup o’ tea would be heaven right now, but you’ve got a feeling --from the way Noodle’s eyes are burning a hole in the back of your skull-- that you’ll need nothing less than coffee to push through the guilt-trip you’re about to endure from your guitarist.

Noodle doesn’t respond to your greeting (that’s a bad sign, you know she’s got something specific in mind when she doesn’t acknowledge your efforts at social niceties) and stands above the kitchen sink to rinse her mug. The sight is familiar yet oddly foreign at the same time; it’s nothing short of a miracle that you all started to make an effort to keep the house livable, actually cleaning dishes and whatnot. Probably had a lot to do with Russ’ dismay when he saw the state of the old dining room at Wobble house.

There’s silence between the two of you as the young girl --woman, you correct yourself-- washes her cup and the kettle starts whistling with the sound of boiling water. Then, she speaks.

“2D’s upset,” she says, matter-of-factly. Her voice isn’t icy or sharp or anything you expected, just unusually soft and quiet for the rambunctious young guitarist. She states the obvious as if for the sole purpose of stating the obvious, doing an admirable job at keeping the judgement out of her voice. Maybe that’s what’s so infuriatingly guilt-inducing about it. Every one of her words drops in the silence like the heavy _thwack_ of a hammer.

“I know,” you say after a while, because there’s not much else you can say.

“Because of you.” _Thwack._

“... I know.”

“It’s not the first time.” _Thwack._

“Yeah, I know that too,” you sigh exasperatedly as you get the kettle off the stove, cursing as you unintentionally spill boiling hot water over the front of your pants --the one day you’d actually bothered to even put on pants in the morning. Well, you’re never trying that again.“Don’t you think I know that?”

You turn your back to her and let yourself fall sluggishly into the couch at the other end of the dining room --just to put some distance between the two of you. You already feel bad for snapping at her like that, and it really is curious, that enormous effect she has on you. One glance from her eyes and you can feel your conscience crawling up your neck. _Satan_ , you wonder, _is this what being a parent feels like?_

Noodle just stares at you, expression as undecipherable as that blasted butterfly mask she’d worn on that beach, all those years ago --sometimes you feel like the bloody thing is still on her face, a wall of incomprehensible designs and unsaid grudges that prevents your eyes from meeting. She could say a lot of things right now to make you feel even more like crap, and you know it. She could say that she’s had to put up with the sound of you and 2D buggering each other’s brains out for the past six months (you haven’t exactly made an effort to keep quiet), and now she’s got to deal with the eyesore that is a silent, mopey 2D. She could say that she’s been caught up in your petty quarrels and your occasionally violent bouts over ridiculous things since she was ten, and she’s sick of it. She could say that after all the crap you’ve put all of them through during the Plastic Beach incident, that she was hoping to return to a place that would feel a bit more like home, like a family (instead of a bunch of people fucking and shouting and moping at each other). Hoping that you’d make an effort.

She doesn’t say any of those things, and you’re both puzzled and sheepishly grateful for that. Instead, she casually makes her way to the couch --carefully walking over the occasional empty bottle and torn newspaper on the floor-- with those dainty little steps of hers, and props herself next to you like a bird next to a twisted, ugly old root overgrown with moss.

“Fancy a smoke?” she asks, retrieving a packet of cigs from her pocket and handing it out to you.

You don’t even have to think about it before accepting one. “Russ doesn’t like it when we smoke inside the house,” you remark, as if you’re still a teenager and not an almost fifty-years-old man.

She shrugs, sticks one cigarette between her front teeth as she lights yours for you. “Russ isn’t here now,” she retorts, with a crooked little smile.

“Yer a bad influence on me, Noods,” you chuckle, before taking a long, slow drag. The joke leaves a nasty aftertaste in the back of your throat, thankfully diluted with the pleasant aroma of nicotine. Poking fun at the strange dynamics that tie your little group together is becoming more and more of a strain on your guilty conscience.

For Satan’s sake, you know what you’ve done, you know that you’re the one who’s brought them all here; you must be some sort of masochist to remind yourself all the time. Or maybe it’s some sort of defense mechanism, some fucked-up way of punishing yourself, purging your guilt without actually doing anything to make it up to anyone. You’re aware it’s stupid, and about as productive as running in quicksands, but you can’t do more than that: this is it, your pathetic attempt at… an _apology_ , you guess (you groan inwardly at the mere thought of the word). You know you’re at fault here --you’re not that deep in denial, and neither are you that big of an obtuse tosser-- but the sheer amount of all the crappy things you have to make up for is so huge, it paralyzes you.

You smoke together in companionable silence for a while. It relaxes you, melts your nerves away enough for you to approach the subject --cautiously and tactfully.

“So I bet the dullard’s told you all about our sex life by now, huh?”

Well, maybe not as tactful as you could’ve been.

Noodle glances at you from the corner of her eyes. Her expression hasn’t changed, but it’s pretty clear she’s trying hard not to wince visibly at your choice of words. “S’ not like I couldn’t know all about your sex life from just sleeping under the safe roof as you,” she answers, in all her brutal honesty. “I haven’t complained because that’s what it seemed to be --just sex. Well, at least until last night is what 2D told me.”

You huff at that, running a hand over your face in exhaustion. “That idiot can be unbearably chatty at the worst of times,” you grumble under your teeth, like the bad-tempered old geezer you are. “He’s a singer; you’d think he’d know when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut.”

“You were encouraging him though,” she points out, looking at you directly now, and for the first time there’s a clear hint of blame in her eyes. She stays still as she observes you, only moving to pinch her cigarette between her lips and cross her arms. Her gaze is unnerving, steady and unflinching like a sniper looking through her lens --reminds you of just where she came from and what she’s capable of. Suddenly you wish she’d kept that old haircut of hers, with the bangs falling over her eyes. You lean back against the couch cushions, hearing the springs squeak under your shifting weight. “Just how much did he tell you exactly?” you ask, after some time.

“Enough,” she answers briefly, with an almost comical expression of pleading that says _I think we’d both be happier if we didn’t dive into the details._ You fully agree with that. “So, what’d you make of it? Do you love him?”

She says it so directly, so casually it makes you squirm uneasily in your seat. You’ve always wondered what it was like for people who could ask this kind of question so effortlessly, who didn’t have to choke on and gasp and spit them out like a hair in their food.

“It doesn’t matter what I feel,” you answer, surprising yourself with how quiet --sorrowful?-- your voice sounds. “Not like he meant it, anyway.”

“What makes you so sure?” The question is simple enough, and the guitarist seems genuinely curious, but it annoys you. Because Noodle is smarter than that, and she should know the answer; she does; she’s just asking to get under your skin, figure out how _you_ ’re feeling.

“Because the poor bloke’s a brain-dead moron, that’s why,” you snap out. “He doesn’t even know half of the stuff that goes on in his mind. He doesn’t know what he feels or doesn’t feel, who he loves or doesn’t love. He won’t even remember what he said two weeks from now. Whatever kind of sick, twisted affection he feels for me would be some form of Stockholm syndrome or other. It isn’t love; it’s _diagnosable_. ‘Might even be able to write him down a prescription for some more bloody pills and cure it away. Whatever love means to him, this isn’t it. It’s not real.”

You take another drag from your cigarette, sucking on the cancer stick like it’s infusing fresh air directly into your veins. Your heart has picked up speed just from your uncontrolled bout of word vomiting. _Satan, you’re pathetic_.

You turn your head away from Noodle, try to bite your tongue to shut yourself up but the rest of the words slip out anyway. “Besides, he’s such a bleeding dullard he loves everything and anything jus’ the same,” you say, unable to keep a petty, resentful edge from your voice. “Saw him stand under the sun for hours las’ week, smiling all sunshine and rainbows at a bloody flower in the backyard. The moron was looking at it as if it were his long-lost brother or somethin’. The other day we come across this dirty joke in the last Playboy issue and he smiles jus’ the same. It’s like he can’t even tell the difference.”

There’s quietness for a while, and you hesitate the say the rest; but you can trust Noodle, and there’s really no reason for pretense after you’ve all spent so many years with each other. “I’m to blame for that, I know; I scrambled the bloke’s brains. I’ve got no right now to pick out whatever strange fancy passes through his empty head, and call it _love_.”

You risk a glance at her. She looks a bit taken aback, understandably, but not nearly as shocked as you’d expected her to be. More than anything, she seems surprised to hear you actually say these things out loud. You resist the urge to frown; are you really that transparent?

“He was really bummed out this morning,” she says thoughtfully, and you’re grateful for her changing the subject --or at least steering it towards a less hazardous terrain. “You could see that, couldn’t you?”

You give a grunt of assent. “The fellow looked like someone ran over his puppy. Must’ve been real depressed.”

Noodle nods solemnly. “He is. And all those times you smack him or insult him and he does that sad little frown --you see those, don’t you?”

The guilt bites at you again, and you feel a twinge of frustration coming on. So this _was_ a guilt-trip after all. “Of course I do, you’d have to be bloody blind not to see it,” you spit out. “Every single time the dullard looks like his world’s come crashing down --you’d think he’d get used to it. What’s yer point?”

The guitarist stares at you like you’re the most fascinatingly obtuse creature she’s ever seen.

“If all the crappy feelings you make him feel are real, why aren’t the good feelings?” she says simply.

You blink stupidly at her. There’s an answer to that, you’re sure there is, an answer that would justify all your dark doubts and fears and uncertainties, and you itch to bark it back at her, but when you look for words you find none.

You’re sure of her intentions now, at least: she’s egging you on, trying to encourage you, but you anchor yourself on your stubbornness and push back with all your might against the (tempting but foolish, so foolish) hope she’s offering. It’s almost cruel of her, to be honest. Her genuine eyes and clever words hover about you, awaking you to possibilities and making you blind to reality, like the fairytale about that stupid sandman throwing sand around to put kids to sleep. _Stop that!_ you want to cry. _You aren’t fooling me with your bloomin’ fairy dust, I know it’s just sand!_

The panic is bubbling up in your throat, and you do what you do every time you panic: you lash out.

“Because, Noods, there’s actually a reason behind the crappy feelings!” you bark at her, jaw clenched into a threatening snarl. “I’m a complete arsehole to 2D and he’s got a reason to feel like crap after I beat ‘im up and call ‘im names! Those are the rare times when he’s actually being smart! What are ye trying to do anyway, playin’ matchmaker for us? Didn’t peg ya for the romantic type, I gotta say. Or d’you just get a kick out of stickin’ your nose in other people’s business?”

The silence after your outburst is deafening. Your throat feels dry and tight. _Fuck._ You’ve messed it up again. You knew you shouldn’t have said that; you regretted the words before they even stopped coming out of your mouth.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you mutter under your breath, burying your face in your hands. Your fingers shake on the cigarette. “I didn’t mean that, Noods,” you say miserably. “You know I didn’t.”

You wish there was a way you could actually physically kick yourself in the brains, but even you’re not that flexible. Noodle might take care of that for you, though. Either you hurt her feelings, or she’s about to lynch your sorry arse. You’re not sure which of these scares you the most.

But she doesn’t do any of those things; instead, she leans over and puts out her cigarette in the nice porcelain ashtray Russ got for you when you first moved in. She settles back on the couch, scoots closer until she’s right beside you, and simply leans her head on your shoulder.

There’s a softness, an innocence in the gesture that makes something inside of you ache in a good way. And there it is again, you think: that sudden wave of fondness and warmth, a quiet and fleeting tenderness, the very specific kind of caring that ties you to her. It’s like the peaceful elation of the early dawn, when everything is still and grey and the city is smiling silently at the people sleeping in their beds; it’s the mute joy of a thousand dust motes dancing gleefully in a golden beam of sunshine. It’s during those very few and far between moments, when you actually wake up before everyone else for once and get to experience the morning, when Noodle is resting her fluffly little head of jet black hair against your shoulder, that you feel like maybe everything isn’t as irredeemably screwed up as you make it out to be. And maybe, just maybe, despite all the crappy things you’ve done over the years, you have a right to happiness; not to _get_ it, of course, but perhaps you’re allowed to _want_ it. Perhaps you don’t need to feel so guilty and awful for knowing that even though you don’t deserve this, any of this, the fame, the success (a few strands of blue hair on your pillow and your bed smelling like 2D in the mornings), you still _want_ it _so fucking much_.

These thoughts are so stupid and so sickeningly sentimental, you push them back down as far as you can once the day gets going and you’re compelled to snap out of your romantic stupor. But when, every once in a while, they strike you, you feel a pang. This right now, the way Noodle carelessly leans in against you as if you’re not some dangerous, deranged arsehole who just yelled at her for trying to help his dysfunctional self, feels huge: it feels like she’s confirming those rare, fleeting hopes, telling you that you’re entitled to wish for happiness.

“We’ve known each other for a long time, Murdoc,” Noodle pipes up against your ear. “I’ve practically grown up around you guys. 2D, Russ, you --what happens to you happens to me. So I reckon it is my business, even if you don’t like me poking my nose in it.”

“I don’t know if growing up around us has done you that much good, Noodle,” you say, a bit regretfully. “I always felt like I would’ve been a crap father.”

The guitarist shakes her head, frowns a little bit at your words. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to call you my father or 2D my brother to know that we’re family. And that’s that.”

You clear your throat, try to ignore the way your heart swells in your chest. Noodle goes on. “I know you’re always trying to find new ways to make yourself miserable, and I know you feel bad for everything you’ve put us through. It shows more than you think.” She leans back, sits up straight on the other end of the couch and gives you a serious look. “It’s so weird, that the only time you refrain from going after what you want is also the one time when you getting what you want would make everyone else happy too.”

She smirks at your dumbfounded look and pecks you on the cheek, tenderly, before getting up to wash the rest of the dishes.

As you look at her standing over the sink --no longer the tiny little girl who struggled to get on high chairs-- you feel a burst of pride for the strong, capable woman she’s become. She’s grown so much, yet so much of her has stayed the same: her amazing guitar skills, her free spiritedness, her striking cleverness. You’re not sure how much credit you can take for the way she turned out; Russ’ gentle kindness has probably rubbed off on her, much more so than your moral ruthlessness or even 2D’s wide-eyed naivety. She may have spent much of her childhood around you, but Noodle has made herself into the woman she is today: she is, and always has been her own person.

You often wonder if she’s influenced you more than you’ve influenced her; you have no answer for that. All you know is that you’ll forever be grateful for the day you opened the door of Kong Studios and came face-to-face with a mysterious FedEx crate none of you had ordered. _Satan bless FedEx crates everywhere._

“So that’s it, then?” you ask her from the couch. “Yer actually encouraging me? Giving me yer blessing and whatnot? No “yer an idiot Murdoc”, no speech about how yer gonna blast me into next Sunday if I hurt the precious dullard’s feelings again?”

“I thought those things went without saying,” Noodle replies nonchalantly, throwing you a grin from over her shoulder. “There’s no doubt Russ will kick your arse if you break his heart, or do anything to mess things up for the band. But that’s not going to happen. Because I won’t let it.”

It sounds like a threat (a threat you’re very aware she could make good on), but you know it’s not. For some reason, you feel relieved --protected. Like a clumsy kid whose mother has just finished wrapping his hands in bubble wrap so he can’t go around knocking vases down or cutting himself. _For fuck’s sake, mate, you’re fifty years old and need a twenty-six year-old woman to protect you from yourself._

You stand up and go for the door, only to find yourself standing there awkwardly, unsure --yet slightly less than when you first walked in the room. “Thanks, Noodle,” you say, and you mean for it to come out as a solemn, heartfelt token of gratitude, but instead it just sounds foreign and weird in your voice. It frustrates you quite a bit, and you think that you’d say things like _“thank you_ ” and “ _I’m sorry”_ much more often than you do if only they weren’t so damn hard to say.

But Noodle doesn’t seem to mind, only hums happily in response without turning away from her dishes. You hesitate for a second, wondering if you should head over to give her a hand with them; but she doesn’t seem to expect any help from you, and considering how tiny that kitchen sink is you’d probably just get in the way. Nevermind that, then. Besides, you’ve got other --more urgent-- matters to look into.

 _Alright_ , you grin to yourself. _Time to catch myself a bluebird._

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Murdoc is actually trying to be a better person after the whole Plastic Beach fiasco, and neither 2D nor Russ know what to make of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this one really got away from me. Again, I did not mean for this chapter to be this long. Seriously, if you need a bathroom break go now lmao.  
> I started this just wanting to write plain smut about 2D and Murdoc, and now I'm dwelling into the family dynamics of Gorillaz with very little knowledge about their backstory. Enjoy this train wreck, everyone! ^^

It never occurred to you that falling head first on a metal trash can could be so painful.

In retrospect, you probably should have spent more time considering your options before going for the window. But impulse control had never been your strong suit, and even after sustaining your first considerable head injury from falling out of that blasted tree in your parents’ backyard, you never could shake the habit of just _going_ for things without thinking them through. Like _going_ for the last blueberry muffin without checking with everyone else (and then being met with Noodle’s crestfallen expression and a glare from Russell). Or _going_ for your band mate’s dick, just because you felt like it.

You didn’t mean to spill the beans to Russell and Noodle, you really didn’t --at least not at first. Your first decision had been to push the events of last night far back into your memory and hope that they’d fall into the gaping hole left there by extensive brain damage and an addiction to pain pills. What was funny, you noticed, was that it was never the memories you _wanted_ to forget that went missing.

You’d probably have had a better chance of forgetting what happened if you hadn’t spent the remainder of the night moping about it. The urge to run away from Murdoc had been overpowering, but you’d regretted taking off so suddenly. You hadn’t meant to slam the door that hard; the loud bang that echoed in the empty hallway had sounded strangely final --as if that door were closing once and for all, not to be opened again. What was it they said about doors: _when one closes, another opens?_ But you didn’t want to open another door. The look on Murdoc’s face as he watched you hightail it out of there was forever imprinted in your memory.

Maybe you had been too scared, too nervous, too unsure in the dangerously comfortable atmosphere of that room. But the second you left, you got curious; you wished you could open that door. Not all the way. Just a little so you could peek inside. See what was waiting for you in there. Murdoc’s mismatched eyes seemed to pierce into you through the closed door.

You’d gone for a long walk through the empty streets near Spirit House. You didn’t know what time it was, but it must’ve been pretty late; the night would’ve been pitch black if it weren’t for the rare streetlights lighting up your way. You didn’t have a watch on and it reminded you of how Murdoc always nagged you about it: he said you wouldn’t be late for rehearsals if you’d just wear a bloody watch when you decided to go wandering off. You didn’t tell him that you had trouble telling the time, mixing up the small needle for the minutes and the larger needle for the hours (or was it the other way around?). Plus, it was nice to find yourself in the middle of nowhere with no idea what time of day (or night) it was. Few cars passed by on the highway and as you looked off into the distance, you saw the road stretching for miles and miles ahead of you; it could’ve gone on forever for all you knew. On late night walks like these, strange fancies crept into your mind like silent crabs on a lonely beach; you felt like you had fallen out of time.

But last night had offered you no such pleasant, dreamy moods. You walked faster than usual. There was a gnawing sensation at the pit of your stomach, a frustration that stuck to your skin as stubbornly as the salty grime of seawater. You realized after a few moments that it was disappointment. Somehow, somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d been expecting --hoping-- for Murdoc to come chasing after you.

Even you could tell how stupid it was to expect such a thing from the bassist. Murdoc didn’t go _chasing_ after anybody --least of all you. What were you thinking, that he’d come running after you? Grab your arm gently before you could make it out the front door of the house, tell you to wait with pleading eyes before pulling you in for a kiss? Ruffle your hair tenderly with a smirk and tell you that it was ok, that you hadn’t freaked him out, that he lov--

You stopped walking right then and there, as if that would also have halted that particular train of thoughts. You turned on your heels and walked back towards the house, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders. No matter how far you walked, your thoughts would stick to you and you’d be stuck in the same, shitty place.

Waking up had been an experience. You must have slept (even though you didn’t feel much less exhausted) because you remember opening your eyes and being greeted with the ceiling of the bedroom looming intimidatingly over you. The weight of the world was on your shoulders once again, but you almost didn’t mind it; you wished it would just fall and crush you already, smothering your limbs and rendering you unable to say anymore stupid things after last night’s fiasco.

It seemed like a pleasant enough idea to stay in bed all morning, loitering in self-pity and shame, but after a while your stomach had growled.

Noodle and Russell had already been up, of course, ever the early birds of your little group. You’d tried to pretend like nothing happened, smiling and greeting them with a bright “hullo!” that was a bit too jolly to be natural. Noodle must’ve suspected something was amiss from the very start, because as soon as you sat down she’d put a huge stack of pancakes in front of you and started preparing you a nice cup of peppermint tea --bless her heart. Russell had been as composed as ever, placidly flipping through a newspaper; his eyes flickered up to meet yours every so often, and you thought you saw a hint of worry in them.

You half-heartedly tried to join the conversation. They were in a good mood; the atmosphere was warm and comfortable and reassuring, and it was everything you felt was missing from you since last night. It was too much. You stared into the steaming depths of your mug and knew right then that if you didn’t talk soon, you’d start crying.

“2D,” Noodle’s voice had spoken up, quiet and full of compassion. “What’s the matter?”

The dam had broken then. You’d let it all out, told them all about it: your awkward confession blurted out in a moment of passion, Murdoc’s mind-boggling reaction to it, your hasty escape after the act. You spared no detail, pondering each of your actions out loud between huge mouthfuls of pancakes, wondering what you should’ve done or if you could’ve done anything differently. Now that you think about it, you probably shared way more than they’d ever wanted to know. For them, it must’ve been a horribly uncomfortable experience, like getting flashed by a stranger at the bus stop. Except that instead of showing them your naked bits, you’d shown them your deepest, darkest fears; it was like you’d opened yourself with a _zip!_ and all your guts had spilled out in a gooey mess on the breakfast table.

They’d listened to you during the whole thing, patiently, without saying anything. When you’d finally stopped talking and gone back to staring dejectedly at the table, Russ had remained quiet, looking very unsure what to say. Noodle had seemed like she was about to say something before her expression froze and her eyes focused on something over your shoulder. You’d turned around and there he was, Murdoc bloody Niccals himself, standing right behind you.

Your eyes met for a split second, and you felt your stomach drop again. Murdoc looked like he’d slept like shit: his eyes were blood-shot, a tell-tale sign he’d drunk himself to sleep --something he’d been doing less, recently-- his hair was all over the place, and he looked just awake enough to be in a piss poor mood already. Seeing you sitting with Noodle and Russ seemed to aggravate him even more. He probably wished he could go about his day ignoring you without having to face their pesky questions.

A whirring flurry of panicked thoughts went through your head in a blaze. _Oh my god he’s mad at you he wishes you weren’t here God he can’t even have breakfast in peace without your ugly mug staring at him he hates you now hates you hates you hates you._

The situation was getting too awkward and you saw only one way to escape it. So you aimed for the half-open window and leapt from your chair; unfortunately you miscalculated and ended up banging your head against the frame, before tumbling into the trash cans below. It wasn’t quite the glorious exit you’d hoped for.

So yes, hitting your head on a metal trash can had hurt quite a bit. But it hadn’t hurt nearly as much as the look on Murdoc’s face.

Looking down at yourself, you can’t help but marvel at your aim; you couldn’t have done a better job if you’d actually planned to land yourself in a trash can. You wouldn’t mind just sticking around here for a while. It’s a beautiful morning --not morning anymore, probably past noon actually (bloody hell, how long had you prattled on about your sentimental troubles?) and a few wisps of clouds are floating in the light blue sky. Pale gold sunlight falls unto the house in oblique rays, making it look more like a lovely, quaintly ancient mansion and less like a run-down ruin.

You’re shaken out of your thoughts by the sound of the front door shutting and heavy, soft footsteps getting closer. Russell appears at the corner and his brow furrows when he sees you. It strikes you that you must make quite a pathetic sight, sitting in a trash can with your long legs hanging out of it like a toddler in a safety seat, surrounded by banana peels and empty soda cans.

“Damn, 2D, you can’t just go jumping out of windows like that,” he rebukes you gently, his strong American accent flowing easily into his deep, gravelly voice. “You okay there, man?”

You don’t debate whether or not to be honest with him. There’s not much of a point in lying, after everything you already told him.

“Not really,” you answer glumly, eyes dropping to the trash beneath your feet.

Russ nods in understanding, and you’re glad that he doesn’t ask you to expand on the subject.

“C’mon, let’s get you outta that trash can,” he suggests. “Can’t be comfortable sittin’ around in a pile of garbage.”

You gulp and start chewing nervously on your lip. Rationally, you know that you’ve got to get out of that can sometime, because it’s just not the kind of thing people do --sitting around in trash cans and pondering their poor life decisions, that is. But you don’t think you’re quite ready to face Murdoc yet; you’re not done steeling yourself, preparing for the way his gaze will shift away from yours whenever you try to make eye contact.

“I don’t really feel like goin’ back inside the house now, Russ,” you say quietly, crossing your fingers and hoping with all your heart he won’t insist. You know full well that Russell can have a short temper; he doesn’t get angry often --not Murdoc angry-- but he’s easily annoyed. If he got sick of your crap, he’d have no problem picking your scrawny arse up and all but throwing you back into the house.

Russell sighs at your stubbornness, but he seems resigned. “Fine,” he says. “I don’t feel like dealin’ with Murdoc’s crankiness either. Let’s take a walk.”

That works. You smile, relieved at his response. It’s a bit of a struggle to get out of the trash can without somehow sinking deeper into it. Russell only lets you squirm for about three seconds, before his large hand grabs you by the back of your shirt, lifting you effortlessly and dropping you safely on the ground.

“Thanks, mate,” you grin at him, and he brushes it off, as if his incredible strength isn’t something to be marvelled at.

You start walking on the little sidewalk half-eaten by wild grass and mold patches. Russell is silent next to you, walking slower than usual to match your pace; it’s a small act of kindness, but you’re infinitely grateful for it. You're usually known to get quite chatty during the rare walks you take with one of your band mates, but today you enjoy the silence. It lets your mind wander back to sweeter times --back when this whole thing between you and Murdoc had started.

Ever since you reunited for the Humanz album, there had been a noticeable change in your bassist’s behavior. He was still an arrogant tosser most of the time, but there was something softer, more subdued about him. Murdoc was quieter than he’d ever been before, and his words had less of a harsh edge to them; he seemed to be making a genuine effort to engage in polite small talk and pleasant chit chat with the three of you, instead of just barking insults at everyone. You knew it was an active effort, because there was something nervous and shifty in the way he acted towards you, a kind of timid caution that was absolutely new and frankly unnerving to see in Murdoc. He looked like he was always on guard, careful in each of his interactions. It didn’t make much sense to you: you’d all known each other for more than twenty years, now was an odd time to start tip-toeing around each other.

For the longest time, you wondered if Murdoc was under the influence of something --not booze, obviously, because you knew how he got when he was drunk and it was definitely anything but polite-- but maybe he’d discovered some new drug that had the weird side effect of actually making him… nicer. He seemed sober, though --more sober than he’d been in all the years you’d known him, to be honest. Eventually, Murdoc relaxed and lost some of his strange jitteriness, but the other stuff remained --the polite exchanges, the social niceties, the _pleasantness_. It boggled your mind, but you figured it was best not to question it; for God’s sake, if Murdoc was actually being nice for once, you bloody well weren’t about to complain about it. All your life, you’d wanted nothing more than for him to be nicer (and maybe more affectionate).

You didn’t notice anything different between Murdoc and you specifically, though, until the day you moved into Spirit House.

You’d all chosen your rooms, and you were busy setting yours up with the few personal belongings you’d brought. You didn’t have much: just a few spare clothes, your old melodica, a few The Clash posters that had been with you through several tours, and memorabilia from previous years with the band. You’d been trying to stick a photograph to the wall next to your bed when there was a knock on the door.

You’d turned around to see Murdoc standing on the doorstep, looking a bit fidgety --as if he was waiting for you to either invite him in or shoo him away. That was new, too. It wasn’t that Murdoc had never had the courtesy to knock before; it was just that he was usually the type to use his knock as code for “I’m coming in now so you better have some pants on” instead of the more common “may I come in?”

“Jus’ came in to check up on you,” he’d said, looking anywhere but directly at you. “You settlin’ in alright?”

You’d nodded and smiled, tentatively, before scratching the back of your head. Something about Murdoc’s change in behavior made you feel different too, all shy and awkward as if you were meeting one another for the first time all over again.

“S’ going great,” you’d said, perhaps a bit too emphatically. “It’s real different from Kong studios, or from our ol’ place in London. I think I’ll like it here.”

Murdoc had hummed approvingly, and you’d noticed that he was nervously fidgeting his fingers in the pockets of his jeans. The sight had made you smile wider. Had you rubbed off on him by any chance?

“Sorry ‘bout, you know… the demons,” he’d said, a bit sheepishly. “Guess I should’ve known the place was cheap for a reason.”

You’d shrugged. “S’ fine. We’ve been in weirder places than this.”

As soon as the words had left your mouth, Murdoc had winced. You’d been confused for a while, before it dawned on you. _Oh_. Of course that was what he was thinking of. After all, what weirder place was there than a pink island made out of garbage?

There’d been a bit of an awkward pause, and Murdoc had cleared his throat. “Well, I’m glad you like it here. Done a good job of decorating the room, I see.”

You’d blinked at that. Murdoc had never complimented your decorating skills, that was one thing you were sure of. “... Thanks.” You’d waited for a while, twiddling your fingers behind your back, before going on. “Hey, Muds? You can come in for a while, if you want. I don’t mind.”

He’d looked surprised at that, gingerly stepping into the room as if the floor was made of some unstable substance and not good old wooden floorboards. He’d stood there uneasily, looking around the place, before his eyes had stopped on the photograph you’d been trying to put up. It was a picture of the four of you on one of your tours: Murdoc was standing in the middle, a hand on your shoulder, the other affectionately ruffling Noodle’s hair. Russ was standing next to her, smiling at a piglet he held in his arms. You didn’t remember much about the day the picture was taken, just that it had been one of the rare moments when all four of you had been in a cheerful mood. You’d stuck it on the wall right above the place where you slept, so it’d be the first thing you’d see upon waking up.

Murdoc had stared at the photograph for a long time, and you’d been getting a bit worried until he spoke up. “Heh. So you’ve still got that ol’ thing, huh?”

“Oh, th-that? Yeah. Can’t really remember when we took that, though,” you’d admitted, a little embarrassed.

“It was during our Demon Days tour,” Murdoc had said, voice low. “In New York.”

You’d been gobsmacked at the fact that he’d actually remembered that in such detail. He’d smiled at the stupid expression on your face, before suddenly becoming serious. “Why’d you agree to come back, 2D?” he’d asked, staring directly into your eyes, gaze so intense it had made you squirm. “After everything?”

You’d thought that was an awfully complicated question to ask so suddenly, without giving you any preparation. So you’d answered with the first thing to come to your mind. “Because of this, I guess,” you’d said, gesturing to the photograph. “Cause of Noodle, an’ Russ, an’ you. Cause of all four of us.”

He’d looked down at his shoes. “I’d have thought it was for the music.”

You’d shrugged again. “That’s what I meant. S’ the same thing, isn’t it?”

He’d nodded slowly at that, looking like he needed some time to process your answer. You didn’t think you’d said anything all that complicated. Then he’d gotten up and left the room, leaving you with a head full of questions.

After that you’d started noticing more strange things about Murdoc’s behavior. He’d say good morning every day, bring you water and your pills when you had a headache, and ask how you were doing afterwards. Conversations with him got easier: you found yourself laughing with him more and more, exchanging jokes without effort and generally having a good time, almost like in the early days of your band. You noticed him shooting glances at you. He touched you more too, and not in the old way where he’d just smack you or throw things at you, but gently, tentatively, as if he wanted to reach out but was being extra careful just in case you pulled away. You thought you saw something… _flirty_ , in his actions towards you --you pushed the thought away, tried to tell yourself it was just your imagination. Wishful thinking, or whatever they call it.

Maybe he’d finally noticed the way your eyes lingered on him, and had figured out the meaning behind it. Maybe he’d understood why you’d always yearned so much for his approval, even when he’d been abusive and just terrible to you. God, maybe he’d even found out --one way or another-- that some nights, when you were jerking off in your bed or shagging some bird, his face (and his voice, and his hands) popped up in your mind instead.

The fear had gnawed at you for days, making you blush and stammer around him and make a complete idiot out of yourself. It had gone on like that for weeks, and probably would have gone on forever, had Murdoc not pressed you against the wall of your room one night and kissed all your doubts away. _Oh_ , you’d thought as you’d felt his tongue gliding against yours (that had been the last distinct thought you’d had that night). _So he did find out, after all._

You remember how happy you were on that first night as Murdoc had let himself fall onto your bed, hastily getting out of his shirt, and how you’d practically flown into his arms to smother him with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. You remember how he’d fisted his hands lightly in your hair, the tremble in his long, deft fingers telling you how good he wanted to make this for you --and how hard it was to restrain himself. You remember his parted lips, the heated look on his eyes as he eagerly watched you sink between his legs. You remember his sharp intake of breath and the full-body shudder that ran through him as your lips closed around the tip of his cock and all you could think was _finally_.

A sudden pang shoots through you, interrupting your pleasant reminiscing, and you groan softly as pain bursts in your head.

“Hey, Russ? D’you think we could sit down for a bit? My head’s startin’ to hurt.”

“Sure, man,” he says, giving you a concerned look as he sits down on the steps of yet another old abandoned house, the wood creaking under his weight. “You got your pills?”

You nod, taking them out of your pocket and gulping three of them down at once --you used to take four each time, but you’re trying to tone it down a bit. After a while the pain eases up a bit, and you let out a sigh of relief.

"Muds probably hates me now," you blurt out miserably.

Russ lets out a sigh next to you and takes out a pack of cigarettes, as if he knows he's going to need a little extra help to get through this conversation. "He don't hate you, D," he says in a consoling voice. "He jus' needs some time to process it all, ya dig?" 

You nod in understanding. You do "dig" it; you know Murdoc's reaction was to be expected, but knowing that doesn't make you feel any better. "I guess it was unfair of me to jus' spring it on him like I did," you admit, gratefully accepting the cigarette he hands out to you. "Don't blame him for being' surprised. I didn’t know I was going to say that until I said it. Surprised myself, y’know? But I reckon that’s how I feel ‘bout him, since I actually went and said it out loud. People say I’m stupid and I don’ make sense, and sometimes it’s hard even for me to figure out what I’m thinkin’! But the way I make sense of it, Russ, the things I say are usually the things I mean to say. I dunno, does that make sense to you?”

“A bit.”

“An’ whenever I think ‘bout being with Murdoc, I get so fuckin’ happy it’s pathetic. Jus’ thinkin’ bout seeing him, or him smiling at me, is enough to get me all worked up. And blimey, when he starts sayin’ all those nice things to me… it’s almost like being high, except that it’s better. My heart starts beatin’ like crazy, like it’s gonna burst straight out of my chest. It’s hard to put words on it, cause all he has to do is look at me, or touch my hand, my mind jus’ goes blank an’ all I know is that I want to keep feeling this way forever, y’know?”

The drummer doesn't say anything and you look over to him. He's hunched in on himself, like he always is, and his sitting position makes him look like a gigantic, round stone, the illusion perfected by his smooth bald head gleaming under the sun. He looks like he's trying hard not to squirm, and you suddenly remember his tendency to get uncomfortable about romantic matters. It's kind of endearing, seeing such a huge, intimidating man get embarrassed over such things. 

“Sorry, Russ," you quickly apologise; and here you thought you'd been done oversharing for the day. "I didn’t mean to go into so much detail.”

“It ain’t that, man," he tries to brush off, despite the barely visible blush across his cheeks. "It’s real nice to see you so happy. Just kinda hard to wrap my mind around the fact that it's Murdoc’s we're talkin' bout. Don’t you remember how he locked you up on that island with the whale? That was fucked up, man.”

“I know it was," you say, and it's true: some nights you still have nightmares about the whale swimming circles around your underwater cell. But not about Murdoc; never about Murdoc. "And I know it’s weird and creepy that I feel this way ‘bout him after all that’s happened. But I can’t help it.” You look to the ground, your whole body drooping towards your feet with the weight of your sadness.

Russell twiddles his cigarette in his fingers, frowns as he makes a skeptical humming sound. 

“You sure are quick to forgive, D.”

“I guess I am, I dunno." You turn to look at him, curious now. "But you did too, right? Y' wouldn't be here if you hadn't, would you?”

He doesn't answer for a while, and the silence makes your stomach flip uncomfortably. You hadn't asked him, or Noodle, why they'd decided to come back. You don't want to make it awkward now, but it's suddenly very important for you to know that Russ is back for good; that he forgave Murdoc and he's ready to make music with him again like in the good old days. You know he still holds a grudge against the bassist, because that's the kind of person Russell is: he remembers everything that anyone has ever done to him. You possess no such skill. Maybe you only forgave Murdoc because you're better at forgetting the crap he put you through. All you know is that you can't hate him, you never could --no matter how much you wanted to. And Murdoc is making an effort this time, giving it his all. He's probably never done that for anyone else, only the three of you. Surely he _has_ to deserve some credit for it.

“You’ve seen the way he’s been acting all nice and such ever since we got back together," you go on, voice wavering a bit but gaze steady. "He’s trying, Russ, he really is.”

Russ takes a long drag from his cigarette and stares back at you, eyes serious and pensive. “I know he is. And Noodle knows it too. I gotta say it’s a nice change of pace to watch him be all… domestic and shit. Like that night he tried to cook for us.”

You smile and nod at the memory. A couple weeks ago, Murdoc had gotten it into his head that he was going to cook dinner for the four of you, all by himself, with the help of a suspicious-looking recipe book he'd found gathering dust in the kitchen. He'd spent hours fussing over the stove and the oven, rummaging through shelves and basically ransacking the whole house in his desperate search for ingredients. Noodle, Russ and you had sat around the dinner table until it was way past midnight, but none of you were brave enough to inquire if Murdoc needed help --or ask _what_ exactly was he trying to cook.

Russell was usually the designated cook of your group; he taught Noodle how to prepare a few dishes; and you'd been known to manage a pretty decent red beans on toast, if no one else was around. But Murdoc had never cooked --at least not food. After multiple curses and colourful words, the bassist had defeatedly walked out of the kitchen, face covered with something that looked very much like soot. The fire alarm started ringing a second later, and a terribly dark, foul-smelling smoke filled up the room. Russell had sighed and gotten up to order a pizza, Noodle had rushed to open every window in the house, and you'd tried in vain to cheer up a stubbornly silent Murdoc. The last time you'd seen such an expression on his face, he'd been sitting behind the wheel of his ruined Jeep after filming the video of 19-2000. 

“Yeah, I wonder what that was all about," you say, shaking your head fondly at the memory of Murdoc sulking over the pepperoni pizza you ended up having. 

“He was tryin’ to show that he was makin’ an effort for us," Russ explains. "Cooking for someone’s a way to show them you care. When the band fell apart all those years ago, he must’ve realized what he had after it was gone. And now he’s so scared of losin’ it again, he’s willing to go to incredible lengths to keep it. Like cooking for us.”

You stare at the drummer, mouth gaping open in what is probably a very stupid expression. He'd always had that skill, an incredible ability to put words on deeply buried, tangled thoughts you could never have made sense of on your own. It makes you marvel that Russ just _knows_ things that you have to run through your mind again and again just to get an inkling of their general shape. 

His words trigger other, much older memories inside you. You remember how your parents had gone through a rough patch when you were a teenager, how it had seemed like everything was falling apart for a while. In those days, your mother had been at the stove day in, day out, slaving over lavish meals that she presented to you with a flourish.

She'd always been a good cook, so you'd figured it was just something that made her feel happy when there wasn't much for her to be happy about. But now, with Russell's explanation, you start seeing a faint connection between her and Murdoc. Maybe they'd both been struggling, trying hard to find ways to bring everyone together. 

“You mean he’s trying to keep his family together or somethin’?” you ask, a dreamy smile on your lips. 

“Somethin’ like that. D’you think it’s working?”

“I dunno, Russ. Sometimes I look at us, and it’s like we’re jus’ four strangers livin’ together and tryin’ to make decent music. There’s jus’ so much we don’t know about each other, y’know? I don’t know if you can make a family out of that. But other times, when we’re making music together and everything jus’ works, it feels… it feels _right_ , for some reason. Like we were all meant to be doing this. Like this thing, whatever it is, the four of us, is fate or destiny or somethin’ like that. Sometimes it feels like none of us is real unless we’re all together.” You shrug and scratch the back of your neck, feeling a bit embarrassed suddenly; that came out much more intense than it sounded in your head. “I don’t know, maybe I’m jus’ being stupid again.”

“Don’t say that, man,” Russ tells you, gently nudging his large shoulder against yours. “Your brains might be busted, but you ain’t as stupid as they say.”

You whip your head back to look at him. “So you get it too then? That feelin’, I mean?”

Russ frowns again, chews at the cigarette between his lips before answering. “I don’t know what we are either, and I know things have gotten real ugly in the past with Murdoc. All I know is we make good music together, and that’s a good enough reason to stay for me. Besides, I ain’t used to bailin’ on my friends.”

You feel a warmth spread in your chest, followed by a painful pang. It suddenly occurs to you that Russ has never told you about the specifics of what happened during the shoot-out --apart from his supposed brief encounter with the Grim Reaper (which is something you'd rather not hear about again). You've known each other for years, and yet you know so little about his past, his childhood friends --friends that must've been bloody close ones too, for the drummer to still be so affected by their deaths decades later. In the past, he’s gone several days without speaking more than two or three words to the rest of the band, usually making an exception for Noodle; you'd always assumed he was grieving for his lost friends, so you left him to it. It worried you sometimes, the way he could close in on himself and quietly sink into those painful memories. But he’d always resurface soon after, ready to make music with you again, and that was what mattered the most.

You know how it is with the four of you. You all have dark spots in your pasts, memories of evil, painful, beautiful things that have happened in your lives: some have hurt you; some have broken you; others you miss; and a lot of them remain a mystery for the other three members. Keeping out of each other’s business is a matter of privacy --something that is essential when living in such close quarters with your band mates. When the memories get too bad, each one of you deals with them on their own and comes back when they’ve sorted it out: that has always been your unspoken agreement.

But that doesn't mean you can't sympathise with one another, or offer comfort when it's needed. 

“I’m really sorry ‘bout your friends, Russ," you speak up, awkwardly patting him on the shoulder. "I don’t know if I’ve told you this before and forgotten, but I’ll say it again jus’ in case. I wish you didn’t have to go through that crap; I’m glad you came to England and met Muds and joined the band and all, but I sure am sorry you had to see your friends die.”

“I know, man," Russ says, but his smile tells you that he's not mad at you. "You’ve told me that before.”

Without thinking it through, you scoot closer to him on the stairs and envelop him in a tight hug, your arms barely long enough to contain his width. He tenses for a while, and you remember a second too late that he's not fond of physical contact, but then relaxes and returns the embrace. You can't help but smile; because of his huge body and big arms, Russ has always been the best at giving hugs. It's like being cuddled by a giant teddy bear.

“You’re a good mate, Russ," you tell him chirpily after you let go. "If I die before you, I wouldn’t mind comin’ back and hauntin’ you for a while. But only if you want me to.”

“Quit talkin’ bout haunting me, man. It’d be weird as fuck to hear your girly voice comin’ out of my mouth.”

“What’d you reckon I should do ‘bout Murdoc, Russ?”

“Look, I’m not tellin’ you not to go for it… but I ain’t tellin’ you to go for it either. You know how the green man is. I know he’s tryin’. He’s tryin’ real hard and it shows, I’ll give him that. But you ain’t ever sure what goes on in that man’s head, ya dig? And we only jus’ got back together, the four of us, an’ things are goin’ good. They’re goin’ so good I don’t know what to think about it. It’d be a right shame if any of you tried movin’ things along too fast and it ended up havin’ bad repercussions on the band.”

He's right, you know that. It's something to take into account, even though you don't want to because it just makes this whole thing ten times more stressful than it already is. The drummer must sense your discomfort because he looks over at you with pity and compassion. 

“I’m not calling you selfish, 2D," he says kindly. "I know that ain’t your nature. I jus’ want to you to think things through before you rush into them. I don’t want you jumpin’ into somethin’ serious like you jumped into that trash can this morning, yeah?”

“I know, Russ. I… I don’t want to be selfish about this, either. I don’t want to jump into things and mess this up for everyone. I know I’ve never been good at thinkin’ things through, but it’s jus’ like… like I’m not in my twenties no more, you know? There are things I can’t get away with no more." You furrow your brows, hands rolling into fists from the sheer force of your determination to become a better man; a smarter man. "I can’t screw everythin’ up and blame it on being young an’ stupid or whatever. An’ I don’t want to. I want to… I want to think things through. I want to weigh the pros an’ cons or stuff, and make good decisions. I… aargh!” A sudden flash of pain tears through your skull and you bury your head in your hands, rubbing frustratedly at your temples. 

Russ taps your back consolingly. “Easy there, man, don’t strain yourself. Look on the bright side: Murdoc tryin’ to be good, and you tryin’ to be smart… no matter what happens between you two, that’s gotta be a change for the better.”

“Never thought I’d see the day when we’d actually start cleanin’ up our act,” you chuckle softly. “I reckon it’s ‘cause we’re growing old.”

“Nah, man,” Russ says. “We’re just growin’ up.”

Like almost everything he says, it sounds like a mysterious code with a deep, philosophical message embedded in it. You look at him, taking in the tranquil expression on his face, the stature of his body made even more impressive by sitting next to your stick-thin figure. All around where the giant drummer sits, ridiculous little wildflowers grow in shades of pink, blue and yellow, poking their heads through cracks in the concrete. He looks like some kind of huge, peaceful Buddha.

"You're a wise one, mate," you grin at him. "So wise I can't understand half a' the things you say." 

He chuckles at that, a genuine, full-bellied laugh that seems to brighten up the day. Then he gets up from the wooden steps and extends a hand to help you up. 

"C'mon," he says. "We should get home now." 

You accept the hand, but don't start walking in the direction of Spirit House. "I think I'll head to the city for the afternoon," you tell him. "Probably hit a pub downtown or somethin'. Feel like I need a bit o' time to myself, y'know, gather my thoughts. You've given me a lot to think about." 

Russ nods approvingly at that. "Sure, man. Take your time to think it through. Try an' lay off those pills, yeah?" 

After promising you'll be good and that you'll be back home at a (more or less) reasonable hour, the drummer starts making his way back to the house. You turn the other way, waddle peacefully down the sidewalk until you manage to hail a cab. Nothing about the situation has changed, but your heart feels lighter somehow. You're still not sure how to handle things with Murdoc, and you know you've got a lot of complicated thinking ahead of you before you figure any of this out. But your chat with Russ has reminded you that no matter what you do, you've still got your band mates to fall back on. 

Maybe that's what it was like for him to be haunted by Del and his other friends, you think as the cab whizzes past the other cars on the highway; like wherever you went and whatever you did, there was a presence sticking to you, following your every step. It might've been spooky, maybe a bit of a nuisance at times, but at least it was never lonely. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Murdoc is a tortured soul and 2D is an adorable drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go guys, fourth chapter. :) Affectionate drunk 2D is my head canon, because he totally seems like the type to get 9000 times cuter after a few drinks. Also, the lyrics in here are taken from the song Amarillo from The Fall album, which I listened to on repeat for two weeks and is perhaps the only thing that got me through finals in one piece. It's just such a wonderful song, and I love that I can't tell if it makes me happy or sad. As soon as I started writing this fic, I knew that I HAD to put those lyrics somewhere in here.   
> It has recently come to my attention that several other fans have picked up on the extra gayness between 2Doc in their recent interviews. I honestly don't think they'll ever be canon (translation: I'm trying very hard not to get my hopes up), but at least it reflects a positive change in their relationship (platonic or not) and that makes me happy. :)

“You told him to do _what_?!”

Russell frowns at your outburst, but he doesn’t look mad or defensive: just confused. “I didn’t tell him to do anythin’, man,” he answers, as insufferably stoic as ever. “I just advised him to think things over, take his time. Said it was better for the both of you that he go at his own pace instead of rushin’ into things, ya dig?”

“No, I don’t dig!” you exclaim at him, barely restraining yourself from screeching. “All I _dig_ is that he’s fine one second, then you talk to ‘im for fifteen minutes and he’s gone to some pub or other to get hammered!”

“D wasn’t _fine_ before, Murdoc,” Russ retorts, eyes narrowing slightly. “Unless jumpin’ outta windows and into trash cans is your definition of “fine”. I didn’t put any ideas in his head that weren’t there in the first place, man. I tried to make him feel better. The guy probably would’ve gone and gotten a lot drunker if I hadn’t talked with him in the first place.”

You turn away from him, starting to pace around the living room like a caged panther. You don’t even notice it fully until you’re on your third lap.

“Oh yeah, Russ, that’s a good job you did there, sendin’ the dullard out drinkin’ alone with a half-full bottle of pills in his pocket,” you sneer at him, hand fisting into your hair and trying hard not to pull at it. “You’re a bloody saint, mate.”

The drummer prickles at that and stands up straighter, suddenly towering over you. “I ain’t the one who put the guy in this mood in the first place, alright?” he says accusingly. “An’ I didn't _tell_ him to do nothin’. 2D’s a grown ass man, Murdoc: he can make his own decisions. Besides, you know he’s never been that big of a drinker.”

You freeze on the spot and tense, waiting for the inevitable “ _unlike you_ ” to follow; it doesn’t. You risk a glance at Russell only to see that he’s sat himself down on the old couch, pose relaxed and hunched over, a far cry from what you’ve come to call his “threatening mode.” The message he sends you is so clear, you can practically hear it in his voice: _this ain’t a fight and we don’t need to make it one. Let’s talk this one over like grown men, yeah?_

You’re still a bit hungover, head pounding from a mixture of exhaustion, frustration and last night’s whiskey. The peace offering sure is tempting: you’re really not in the mood to start yelling and throwing punches around, only to spend the rest of the day beating yourself up over it. The only thing is, you were expecting a fight and had started mentally gearing up for it. Russ had an opportunity to turn this into something nasty and didn’t take it. You’re not quite sure how to pick things up from here.

Thankfully, Russ takes pity on you. “He just needs a lil’ time to himself to get his thoughts together,” he says in a comforting tone. “He told me so himself. He’ll just have himself a couple drinks, think things over and you guys can talk it out when he comes home. It ain’t nothin’ for you to sweat about, man.”

Noodle shoots you a sympathetic glance from the dining table, where she sits listening to music and sipping from a can of soda.

“Russ is right, Murdoc,” she pipes in. “You don’t need to worry. 2D isn’t going to pick up some random stranger.”

You feel yourself flush scarlet at her words. She’s hit the bull’s eye once again, of course. You look at the two of them, and you’re not sure if it’s all in your head or if they actually do look smug about the whole situation. Like they’re enjoying the fact that, for once, you’re so bloody _easy_ to read. You feel like a caged bull, sputtering and grunting uselessly at iron bars. You’re torn between emotions: guilt for dragging them both into this… mess (the words “lovers’ quarrel” fleet briefly across your mind before you promptly trample them mentally); and pure, sheer embarrassment at having such a private matter exposed to their eyes.

Noodle and Russ are quiet, their eyes filled with the same air of expectancy. You _could_ admit they’re right. Tell them the one huge, terrifying truth you’d done everything in your power to conceal for nearly twenty years: that you do care, about the two of them, about 2D, more than anything, that you don’t want them to leave, you don’t want 2D to leave now that you’ve finally got him the way you wanted to have him for so long, and that you hoped with all your cold, dead heart that those blissful nights with him hadn’t just been a cruel taunt from Satan.

You could tell them; that would be the right thing to do and you know it. The silence is filling up the room like the gas you used on 2D on that fateful day, and once again you’re faced with the realization that you’re just not brave enough --at least not yet. You turn away from them with a dismissive scoff, nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste to go lock yourself in the safety of your own room.

You let yourself drop to the floor, your back pressed against the wall. Your fingers twitch and itch for something to grab, and your eyes land for a split second on the closet that hides your secret liquor stash. A drink would feel like heaven right now. But you’d already tried that solution last night, and it hadn’t worked --perhaps it’d even made everything worse. You rummage in your pockets and get out a pack of cigarettes instead --the one poison that had the benefit of hurting yourself much more than it hurt others. Second-hand smoking is only a minor inconvenience compared to the violent consequences of your foul mood after one too many drinks.

An image of 2D pops uninvited into your head, a half-thoughtful, half-dreamy look on his face as he leans over a balcony, cigarette hanging from his lips. You curl your fingers, mentally yell loud profanities to get rid of the thought, but it stays and morphs, becomes lovelier still, fuelled by a thousand memories. Your mind goes into overdrive, flooded by images.

2D cursing softly as he struggles to light a cigarette, thick brows furrowed in an impossibly endearing way.

2D’s face lighting up with a bright, happy smile as you lean over to light it for him.

2D turning to look at you, head tilted and wearing a cheeky smirk, after you accidentally told him how bloody handsome he looked when he smoked.

You shake your head to get rid of the thoughts and pluck a cigarette from the pack. As you put it to your lips, an array of different, more enticing images assaults your mind.

You remember 2D’s expression as you held his hand to your lips and sucked on those pianist fingers; you remember the feeling and taste of those fine, slender digits as you rolled your tongue along them;

You remember the way 2D’s breath hitched so prettily in his throat, a blush spreading across his cheeks, his eyelids closing in a delighted little flutter.

You remember whispering in his ear about all the dirty things you wanted to do to him. You remember how he nodded fervently at your words, gazing up at you with that _perfect_ look in his eyes that was at once pleading, adoring, and blissed out.

 _No, no, no! Stop thinking about him like he’s some sort of god!_ You curse at yourself. The boy really was too beautiful for his own good; the greatest danger for beautiful things was that sooner or later they were idealized. You know you’re guilty of this: how many times have you called 2D angel, or god? It scares you, the way those words come so naturally to you. Eventually, 2D --with his weird quirks, his stupidity, his rare angry outbursts and his terror of whales-- would vanish behind the “blue-haired, black-eyed god.” That terrifies you more than anything. You’re a Satanist, for fuck’s sake. You’ve made it your religion to trample gods under your feet.

You chuck the cigarette violently at the wall, watching it fall crumpled to the floor. You think about all the times you pushed 2D against the wall to shout abuse at him, all the times you pinned him to the floor and punched him, all the times you threw him against the wall as if he were nothing more than an unwanted cigarette.

 _Why the fuck does he still want me then?_ You run a hand through your hair and sigh. It didn’t make any sense and it was probably just a result of his brains being so messed up, and it was probably as immoral as it could get to take advantage of that. But then again, running in the opposite direction didn’t seem to do any of you that much good either; you’d seen the awful expression on 2D’s face as he saw you walk into the room this morning. You knew he was disappointed that you hadn’t run after him after he left. Was this situation any better than if you decided to hell with it and took what you (what _both_ of you) wanted?

 _Don’t you dare twist this into something that suits your own sick desires_ , a voice growls menacingly in your head, and you want to tell it to bugger off but you know you can’t. You can’t deny that no matter how moral it seems, this is what you want --and what you want has rarely been correlated with doing the right thing. More importantly, what you want has hardly ever been correlated with what other people want. What had Noodle said? "The one time you refrain from going after what you want is also the one time that what you want would actually make everyone else happy too." She was absolutely right. Bloody hell, were you that set against other people’s happiness that you were willing to sacrifice your own?

 _You’ve made the poor bloke suffer enough. Now that it’s in your power to make him happy, it’s in your duty to give him what he wants; you owe it to him._ Well, that was just a sorry excuse for an argument, you scoff at yourself. Whatever vague inkling of duty you ever felt, you always made sure to go directly against what it told you to do. You’d decided early on that doing things because you felt like you had to led to living life because you felt like you had to; and you’d promised yourself that no matter what happened, you’d never let yourself fall so low.

Yet here you are now, a couple years past fifty, having achieved your dream of being a world-famous rock star, and finally you find yourself thinking about duty. It’s such a foreign concept you can’t wrap your mind around it. The part of you that’s too scared of reaching for 2D is the same part that wants to grab him and run for your life before you can think about whether or not you deserve this.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to do the right thing for selfish reasons; it’s probably the closest you’ll ever get to being a good person. You remember 2D giggling as you teasingly tickled the nape of his neck, and it brings a smile to your face. _Oh yes_ , you think. _If it means making 2D happy, that would be getting very close indeed._

You don't realise you'd fallen asleep until you're woken by the sound of something crashing against your door.  One glance at the window tells you it's pitch dark outside. The bedroom door starts shaking with a series of heavy knocks, not angry or violent ones, just loud and annoyingly insistent. 

"Oi, whoever it is, quit bangin' on my door," you bark, reluctantly getting to your feet. "I heard you the first time." 

The banging doesn't let up and you sigh as you realise who's likely behind the door. You open it and sure enough, you're greeted by a flash of blue and an armful of drunkenly affectionate 2D. 

"Murdoc!" he exclaims, his voice way too loud as he hangs on to you. "M' so glad to see you, mate, y'have no idea how much I missed ya today..." 

"Yeah, yeah, I think I've got an idea," you retort snarkily like the grumpy old man you are, but you can't help but let out a sigh of relief as you scan the dark hallway behind him and see that it's empty. No giggling lass dressed up as sparkly as a Christmas tree, no simpering pretty boy in skin-tight jeans (well, aside from the singer himself of course). _Thank Satan, he's by himself._

"M' sorry I'm home so late, Muds," he slurs, head drooping on your shoulder and breath hot in your ear. "Didn't mean ta come home so late. S' so late... even you were sleepin'." 

"I wasn't sleepin', idiot," you say, realising your mistake too late. "I mean, I _was_ sleepin', but..." 

You try to save face, but 2D's already caught on. His grin grows wider, the black gaps between his white teeth reminding you of piano keys. "Y' fell asleep waitin' for me," he guesses correctly, to your great dismay. "You were waitin' for me, weren't you?" 

You grumble a half-arsed dismissive comment, but it's far from convincing and you're not even sure he's listening anyway. Did the dullard really have to drink so much? You've seen him in worse shape, but he's definitely had more than the casual drink or two. He leans his entire body on you, struggling to keep his balance; with a little difficulty, you manage to lean down and take his sneakers off, all while keeping one arm around his shoulder to support him. 

"Yer such a gentleman, Muds," he drawls, leering at you in a way that's definitely supposed to be flirty. "Takin' care o' me when I'm drunk an' all. Never thought you could be so cute." 

"Can't help but notice you came home alone," you say, managing to keep your voice admirably nonchalant. "Guess yer charms didn't succeed in seducin' any floozies tonight. You must not be that cute either then, eh mate?" 

"Aww, Murdoc, yer jealous!" he squeals with glee, almost strangling you in a bone-crushingly tight hug. "Y'thought I was gonna pick up some bird, didn't you? Y' shouldn't be jealous, Muds. I'd tell ya green ain't a color that looks good on ya... But we'd both know that'd be a lie." 

He grins smugly, before burping in the back of his hand. You can't help but raise an eyebrow; was 2D trying to be suave or something? 

You tense as he leans in closer and his lips brush against your ear. "Everythin' looks good on ya, Muds," he whispers. "An' I think I look good on you too. I think we look reeeaal good together, Muds. So we should be together, yeah? 'Cause you look good, an' you think I look good, an' because I love you."

 _There it is._ You'd been doing a good job of trying to get your ideas together (okay, fine, you'd been trying to anyway), and now he's gone and said _that_ again. You tell yourself that it doesn't count this time, not when he's probably got more liquor in his veins than actual blood. You shrug lightly, trying to nudge him off your shoulder. 

“Quit spoutin’ that nonsense, dullard,” you grunt, trying to sound menacing, but your voice cracks in your throat. “Yer drunk.”

He hiccups and starts at the sound, looking very much like a surprised meerkat, before frowning accusingly at you.

“I gotta say it as much as I can while I’m drunk,” he explains, swaying on his feet. “If I were sober right now, y-you’d run off, or tell me to can it. But now I’m drunk, so I get to say it as many times as I want to, an’ you can’t do anythin’ bout it.”

Now where the hell did he come up with that brilliant conclusion, you wonder. You don’t have much time to wonder, though, because the next second he’s leaping at you with a _“whoop!_ ”, his body colliding full force against yours and sending both of you tumbling backwards on your bed.

He sits up remarkably fast for someone that hammered, while you’re still trying to regain your bearings and ignore the way he’s currently straddling your waist in those damnably tight jeans. _Satan, this is hard on you_.

“Muds, Muds, Muds,” he chants happily, bouncing lightly on the mattress like a happy kid. “Murdoc. Mudzzie.” He breaks out in a fit of giggles at the stupid nickname, and you thank the devil that he’s drunk and probably won’t remember coming up with it. “I love you sooo much, Mudzzie, d’you know that? You’re so great, an’ so smart, you’re the smartest person I know, mate. An’ you like me too, don’t you? Mudzzie?”

“What makes ya think that, idiot?” you snap at him half-heartedly, because you wouldn’t even believe yourself right now. The very fact that you’re actually answering to  _Mudzzie_  shows how much you care about the lovable moron.

It doesn’t seem to be that obvious to 2D, though. He frowns a little bit, tilts his head to the side in that adorable way. Satan, he has to know what that does to you.

“I dunno,” he replies, shrugging. “It makes sense, yeah? I mean, you’ve been nice ta me lately. You don’t hit me no more, or call me names. You always make sure I come first when we shag. You call me pretty an’ beautiful all the time. An’ even though you won’t say it, you like it when I tell you I love you.”

You feel your face heat up at that last bit. He doesn’t miss it, unfortunately, and your heart drops into your stomach as his face slowly lights up with a lopsided, knowing smirk.

“I love ya, Mudzzie,” he repeats, gaze intense and poised, and you’re reminded of a predator stalking a prey. He leans down and starts pressing clumsy kisses to your neck, your shoulders, your arms, every inch of naked skin he can find. “I love you.” A kiss to the elbow. “I love you.” A kiss on the back of your hand. “Love ya forever, Mudzzie.” A kiss to the shoulder. “Have I mentioned that I love you?” A kiss to the collarbone.

You squirm and struggle feebly under his weight, trying to get him off you without having to knee him in the crotch. It’s horribly embarrassing, the way your face flushes and your heart speeds up when you hear him say that, until you can practically feel your pulse jumping in your throat. You wish he would stop, because now is not the right time, not with him drunk out of his mind and still way too many things left unsaid between you. But that voice, and those lips, the warmth of his body and the way he’s staring at you-- _Satan, never stop. Please, please, let this go on forever._

As if he’d heard your thoughts, 2D suddenly stops and sits up again, legs spread on either side of your hips and the same, knowing smirk on his lips --but softer now, sweet rather than teasing.

“See,” he grins victoriously. “Knew ya liked it. S’ fine, Murdoc. I won’t make fun of ya for it. It makes me real happy. Sayin’ it, I mean. I wanna say it all the time, every day. I wanna shout it out real loud, so everybody knows how much I love my Mudzzie.”

You sigh in defeat, finally letting your hands come up to cradle his face. _He’s just too bloody cute_. Soft strands of blue hair flow through your fingers, and you think it’s a pretty good metaphor for how you’ve spent most of your life: a fucked up old geezer loitering near the banks of hell, grabbing blindly at traces of blue sky.

“Oi, quit callin’ me Mudzzie, will you,” you tell him. “Then maybe I’ll enjoy it more.”

He nods vigorously at that, a wide grin on his face. “Okay, Muds!” he chirps happily, slipping back into the old, slightly less embarrassing sobriquet. “I’ll show you jus’ how much I love you, so jus’ watch, ‘kay?”

You nod patiently, half-expecting him to put on a steamy show for you (because you’re just that much of a pervert, and let’s face it, nothing’s ever gonna change that). Instead, 2D spreads one lanky arm to the side, slowly extending the other one as he tells you, “I love you thiiiiiis mu-- whoa!” He extends the other arm a bit too far, losing his balance and nearly toppling off the bed like a sailboat in choppy waters.

You manage to catch him just in time, cursing between your teeth as you struggle to hoist him back up. He rewards you with an unrestrained look of adoration, before promptly collapsing face first into your chest. 

The added weight causes you to lose your balance and hit your head against the wooden headboard, making you hiss in pain. 

"Oi, 2D, d'you mind watching--" 

"It'd make me happy too, ya know," he speaks up softly, head resting on your chest. "Hearin' you say it, I mean." He must feel you tense under him, because he turns his head just enough to press a reassuring kiss on a spot right above your heart. "It's ok if you're not ready to say it back. I know you're scared. I don't mind as long as you let me say it. I'm used to it, y'know? S' always been this way. You write the lyrics, an' I sing the songs."

There's a moment of silence, 2D's fingers moving further up your torso to play idly with your chest hair. He looks so peaceful lying on top of you; so at home. 

"I know the words scare you, Muds" he repeats. "But you're sort of the one who gave 'em to me, y'know. M' not tryin' to say you _told_ me to say it, or even wanted me to, but... s' like you carved the words inside o' me an' all I could do was say 'em out loud." 

Your throat is painfully tight. You struggle for a few seconds to say something, anything just to make him stop talking. You come up with an overused classic. 

"Shut up, 2D." 

"'Kay," he mumbles without protest (as usual), sounding a little sleepy now.

Carefully, you lay your hand on the back of his hair, silently reveling in the impossibly soft feel of the hair at the nape of his neck. 2D lets out what sounds suspiciously like a mewl, presses into your touch. 

“M’ tired, Muds,” he mutters, voice muffled by the high collar of his jacket as he nuzzles into your chest. “I don’t wanna be fightin’ no more. Can we jus’... jus’ be together now? Huh? Do we get to be happy now?” He looks up at you when you don’t answer, extends one long finger to poke cautiously at your crooked nose. “Muuuuds? You in there? ‘Ello?”

You’re in there alright. You kind of wish you weren’t; kind of wish you could slip out of this old, weary body for a while, become a cloud or mist that could wrap itself around the singer’s lithe shape and lull him to sleep. He’s so ridiculously tall, there’s no way his limbs can fit inside your arms; but he still does his best, body rolled into a ball to make himself as small as possible. He’s moving his hands in the air, tracing strange invisible patterns, long fingers moving sluggishly as if caught in some sort of mesmerising underwater dance. He lets them fall on your shoulders. You take them gently in yours and press your lips to the inside of his wrists, where the skin is tender and smooth and paper thin.

Once again, like so many times before, you’re struck by his air of purity. Cradled like that in your arms, he looks sweet and simple and impossibly fragile. A strong wave of protectiveness rises inside you; you wish you could carry him somewhere safe, somewhere far far away from all harm. But how can you do that now, when so many terrible things have happened to him and you were all of them?

You feel his breath coming in soft, quiet puffs against your sternum, and for a second you think that he’s fallen asleep. You’re proven wrong as he starts humming a song, mumbling lyrics incoherently in a half slumber.

“The sun has come to save me… Put a little love into my… lonely soul…”

Your heart tightens in your chest as you recognize the song he’s humming --and which album it’s from. _Ah, yes. That was quite the album, wasn’t it?_ 2D hadn’t been working with much, what with being all by himself, and yet he’d managed to produce such a little gem. The selfless part of you had been so proud of him for that, although you probably had very little reason or right to be proud --it wasn’t like his talent came from _you_ , and you realized that now. More than anything else, it had been a reminder of just what 2D was capable of achieving without your help.

You’d always considered yourself the best lyric writer in the band. 2D was, well, you saw him as a kind of music savant: not very bright, but gifted with a unique, heavenly voice and a natural talent for certain instruments. You’d been forced to revise your judgement when you heard his lyrics. They really were something else: sorrowful and bleak for the most part, but interspaced here and there with a few rare, beautiful sparks of hope. A plain idiot could never have come up with such lyrics. There was something behind the words: a voice, a soul that had been stifled for a long time and had somehow survived despite the silence you’d imposed on it. It was while listening to the Fall that you’d realized how deeply you’d fallen for him.

Satan, you'd been sitting on this for a long time. You should've told him everything years ago, but neither of you were ready back then; it wouldn't have turned out well. 

 _And are you ready now?_ a voice nudges at you from the back of your conscience. 2D certainly was. He'd always been faster than you at everything; more impulsive, more brave. You don't feel very brave right now, but you never do feel brave enough to take the leap --you always feel like you need more time. The days and the nights seem to run by at the speed of light, and you're stuck struggling to finally make up your mind as the people you love wait with endless patience. 

It's fine though; you can let the night run on its way outside. In this room, the world and time stand still. 2D is asleep and deaf to anything you could say. Right now would be a good time to try saying the words out loud; get a sense of how they feel coming from your mouth.

 _Alright,_ you tell yourself. _A practice run, then._ It's a bit pathetic, the fact that you're a grown man struggling to confess to the object of your affections as the man lies dead asleep in your arms, but you don't let yourself dwell on that. If there's even the slightest inkling of courage inside you right now, you're grasping it with all your strength.

You take a deep breath and start to speak, keeping your voice at the level of a whisper. You keep telling yourself that it's more like speaking _at_ him, rather than speaking _to_ him, because it's the only thing that keeps you from chickening out. 2D's arms are shaken by a shudder and he makes a small whimper at the back of his throat. You shush him gently, holding him close to you. His fingers tremble a little and curl on themselves, as if holding onto something infinitely precious.

You can't help but take one of his hands into your own, grabbing it like an anchor. It's funny, you think, how the same person could make you more afraid than you'd been in your entire life, yet braver than you'd ever thought you could be. 

An overwhelming surge of tenderness floods your senses, and slowly, carefully, you let your soul come undone in the palm of his hand. 

  


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which 2D drunkenly reminisces about the beginnings of their liaison, and Murdoc opens up to him while he's "sleeping."

_I had too much to drink._

That is the first intelligible thought you have upon regaining consciousness; it rings loud and clear like a bell in your mind and effectively kicks your arse out of slumber. Just like that, you find yourself irrevocably awake, body still sluggish and mouth tangy with the taste of alcohol. You're content to lay there, unmoving, like a fat manatee washed up on a beach.

A nagging voice at the back of your mind tells you that you should try to figure out exactly where you are and how you got there. Taking a look around would be a first step, but your eyelids are so, so heavy. You can't tell much about your whereabouts with your eyes closed, but you gather that you're lying horizontally on a flat, firm surface. It's warm under you and not completely still --it moves, but in a tranquil, lulling rhythm that's far from unpleasant. 

You make a half-hearted attempt to recollect your memories of the past hours. Judging from the lack of noise and blinding sunlight filtering in through your eyelids, it's still nighttime. After a few seconds of deep reflexion, you manage to get a pretty clear picture of the earlier half of the night. Past a certain point, it all goes blurry.

The cab had taken you to a small, nice-looking pub downtown. It had been almost empty, probably because the sun had barely started setting when you walked in. You'd sat down at the counter of the bar --you always sat there because they had those neat, spinning seats. You'd started off with a few pints of beer, praising yourself for your moderation --then you'd started ordering stronger stuff as the night progressed, more people flooded in, and it became harder and harder to gather your own thoughts admist all the noise. After a while everything had started to get muddled: Russ' words, your confession, the way Murdoc had looked at you this morning. None of it made sense anymore; worst of all, you'd felt the beginnings of a headache.

Remembering your promise to Russ, you'd restrained yourself from taking more pills and just continued drinking instead. The dull ache in your skull had been replaced by a woozy numbness, and your mind had drifted to memories from four months ago --in the earliest days of this thing between Murdoc and you. 

For as long as you remembered, you'd always thought about the possibility of spending a night with your band mate as a wild fantasy, something that intrigued you a bit, scared you a bit --and turned you on a lot. But in every one of your daydreams, you'd always seen it as a one time occurrence, something that would lose most of its appeal after you'd experienced it once. You'd thought that was all it was: curiosity. Once you knew first-hand what it was like to shag Murdoc, that'd be enough.

Instead, the complete opposite had happened. After getting one taste, you couldn’t help but wonder about what else could be waiting for you. You’d felt frustrated with yourself for not thinking ahead: of course just one time wouldn’t be enough. One night barely counted, it just gave you concrete details to base your fantasies on. One night was a cruel taunt and opened the door to all sorts of new, more vivid fantasies. 

Murdoc’s cock twitching, leaking salty beads of precome on your tongue while he eats your arse out, twirling that devilishly long tongue inside of you.

Murdoc panting and grinning, eyes heated with lust but steadily fixed on you as he watches you fuck yourself on a dildo, guiding you with encouragements and dirty words spoken in a velvet voice.

Murdoc in that stupid Nazi costume from that one Halloween years ago, ordering you to sit buck naked on his lap, grinding his clothed cock against you until you’re sobbing for more.

It had all been too much. Masturbating hadn’t helped; now that you knew what he felt like, you couldn’t be satisfied by the poor substitute of your own hand. So you’d made your way to his room, ready to beg for more.

Murdoc's eyes had widened a bit at seeing you on his doorstep. “Oh, it’s you,” he’d grunted, nudging the door closed with the heel of his boot. “Come in, I guess, make yerself at home or whatever. What’d’ya want?”

You’d timidly stepped inside. “About last night…” you’d started hesitantly, looking at Murdoc from the corner of your eyes to gauge his reaction.

He’d stiffened a bit and kept his back turned to you; you’d noticed he was nervously stomping his foot on the floor. “What about last night?” he’d barked at you in his usual gruff, coarse voice. “Wasn’t it enough? Or are ya already comin’ back for some more, doll?”

His voice had lacked its snarky undertone, the one that usually warned you when he was trying to pull your leg. You'd pondered what you were about to say, wondering if you were being too bold, too unlike yourself. But you’d already gone through the trouble of dragging your arse from your room to Murdoc’s, so you’d figured you might as well continue to be brave.

“Last night was a lot o’ fun, I’ll give ya that,” you’d begun after clearing your throat. “Gotta say it wasn’t quite what I expected, though.”

“What’d’ya mean by that?”

He’d turned a bit too fast, looking almost offended by what he thought you were implying. You’d thrown in your bait, and sure enough, he’d bitten.

You’d sat down cautiously on the edge of his bed. “Well, I dunno. S’ jus’ that… it was pretty classic, wasn’t it? Not that I mind --I’m real glad that you went slow and were so careful with me.” At that, a pink blush had bloomed across Murdoc’s cheeks, spreading all the way down to his neck. It had taken every ounce of your self-control to keep yourself from smiling. “But you’re Murdoc Niccals, y’know? I dunno, I guess I… I always thought you’d have all sorts o’ crazy tricks up your sleeve o’ whatever.”

The look in his eyes had shifted then, and you’d felt a sudden rush of blood go through your body --and settle in one particular place.

“Oh really?” Murdoc had said, slowly, in that voice you’d already come to associate with very specific memories. He hadn’t moved from his spot yet, and suddenly the distance between you had felt almost intolerable. 

You’d nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. All your giddy boldness had evaporated like water under the heat of his gaze.

“So the “classic” stuff isn’t enough for you then?” he’d said as he started walking closer and leaned over you, body stretched in a languid, panther-like pose. “How long have ya been thinkin’ bout my “crazy tricks”, huh?”

“Jus’ long enough,” you’d replied, and then he'd been kissing you and sliding a hand underneath your shirt. You’d felt a stirring in your groin and whatever blood was left in your head had rushed south. Your heart had started thundering with another kind of excitement. It was joy and relief at the thought that you were doing this again, that the last night hadn’t just been a lucky fluke; your heart had felt as light as your head, like it was filled with several champagne bubbles all popping at the same time.

“Never thought you’d be so kinky,” he’d whispered into your ear. “Always had ya pegged as a vanilla bloke, to be honest with ya.”

You’d made a huff of protest, offended by Murdoc’s condescending tone. “I’m not vanilla, mate,” you’d retorted. “Not all the time, anyways. An’ I bet I can handle whatever you throw at me.”

He’d chuckled at you, obviously unimpressed by your attempt at a challenge. But it hadn’t been cruel; there’d been something… fond, yes, that was the word again, in his eyes. In a move that had been too fast for you to see, he’d removed your pants and sat up so that he straddled you, his hands firmly anchored on your hips.

“Show me then, pet,” he’d purred.

That had been the beginning of a wild night. The only downside was that waking up the next morning hadn’t been nearly as fun: every muscle in your body was sore --not painfully so, but just uncomfortable enough to make you want to stay in bed all day. To make matters worse, you’d been scheduled for an interview that day and had to get up at seven thirty --which was basically the middle of the night for you.You’d tried your best to stay focused on the interviewers’ questions.

One of them, a young journalist, had been flirting rather openly with Murdoc. Most of the interview had consisted of the two of them exchanging innuendos in a silly, casual back-and-forth that became more infuriating the longer you had to watch it. You’d found yourself checking her out, trying to judge whether or not she was Murdoc’s type. The girl was pretty, there was no doubt about it; her makeup was impeccable and she was dressed fashionably, with a black pencil skirt that hugged her thighs and the curve of her hips. If she wanted to fuck Murdoc --and she certainly seemed interested-- there was no reason for him to refuse.

The realization had made you freeze in horror. You'd snapped back to reality only to learn that the interviewer had been trying to ask you a question for several minutes. As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, your stares had been completely misconstrued by the journalist; as you’d gotten up to leave, she’d thrown you a sultry glance as her hand lingered on Murdoc’s arm. You’d said your goodbyes and left hastily after that, trying not to think about what she may have been implying. 

Murdoc had gone out that evening, after spending the whole afternoon boasting to Russ. ( _“Did ya see how that little brunette was givin’ me the eye? ”_ ) You’d locked yourself in your room, ready to enjoy a long night of sulking.

At eleven thirty there’d been a knock at your door. “M’ fine, Noodle, jus’ need some time to myself,” you’d answered mechanically.

Murdoc’s voice had replied through the door, quiet and sounding strikingly sober. “S’ me, Dents. Can I come in?”

You hadn’t answered. After a long silence, Murdoc had cautiously opened the door. He was dressed a little more sharply than usual, with a peculiar attention to style that you recognized from seeing him go out on countless dates in the past. “You’re home early,” you’d pointed out, your voice toneless.

He’d nodded slowly, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”

“Did ya sleep with her?”

Murdoc’s eyes had looked up to meet yours, gaze unflinching as he replied, “No.”

That had been enough for you. Nevermind that Murdoc had repeatedly proven himself to be a dishonest, cheating tosser; hell, he’d learned from the Prince of Lies himself. You’d grabbed him by the front of his shirt, tugging him to you until your lips were smashed together. In a split second you had him sprawled on your bed, breath coming out in short puffs. As you leaned in to undo his belt, you’d spotted a reddish stain on the front of his pants, a stain that smelled oddly… like grape?

Murdoc had sighed at your dumbfounded expression. “Look, she invited me back to her place an’ I had to find an excuse to leave, alright?” he’d explained impatiently. “I couldn’t think of anythin’ good, so I spilled her crappy wine all over her couch an’ my trousers, an’ showed myself the way out.”

There’d been a moment of silence as you gaped at him like a fish, slack-jawed and all. Murdoc had looked just the tiniest bit embarrassed under a thick layer of annoyed, and it probably would’ve been more charitable of you to drop the whole matter. Instead, you’d found yourself trying to stifle your giggles in the palm of your hand.

“You really did that?” you’d asked him after you’d calmed down, struggling to keep the laughter out of your voice.

Murdoc had glared at you like you were being ridiculous, and it probably was a bit ridiculous to get so worked up over something so insignificant. But you couldn’t help it. He’d thought about _you_ , when he could’ve been getting his rocks off with that girl; he’d known that you were waiting for him back home, and he’d ditched her for _you_. How could you know that and not start smiling like an idiot?

You’d enveloped him in a tight hug, content to nuzzle your face into his neck and just enjoy the warmth of his body for a few seconds. Murdoc had grumbled, but he hadn’t seemed to mind. His hand had come up to ruffle your messy hair, and his hands on your back had held you just as firmly as you held him. “The things I do for you, Stu,” he’d huffed, a low, affectionate rumble you felt deep in your chest.

It couldn't have been just sex for him, you'd thought. People didn't do or say things like that when it was just sex. They didn't sneak longing glances at you for weeks on end before making a move; they didn't voluntarily spill wine over their fanciest pair of trousers just to have an excuse to go home to you; they certainly didn't come from hearing you declare your undying love to them.

The realisation had almost made you lose your balance and fall off your chair. A few other clients at the bar had thrown you concerned looks, asking if you were alright and saying you'd had enough for the night. Their voices had seemed to come from far, far away.

In a sudden burst of determination, you'd slammed your glass down and risen to your feet. The floor was a bit wobbly, but that was fine, it’s nothing you can’t handle --not with about a dozen pints of liquid courage inside you.

“M’ gonna tell ‘im,” you'd said. You'd meant to whisper it to yourself, but you must’ve been louder than you thought because suddenly everyone in the bar had turned their head to look at you. “M’ gonna go an’ tell ‘im, a-an’ I’m gonna show ‘im how easy an’ simple it can be, an’ that he doesn’t need to make it so, s-so bloody complicated. ‘Cause I fancy him an’ he seems to fancy me, an’ the sex is bloody great, so what’s complicated about that? S’ the simplest thing i’ the world!”

The bartender had finished cleaning glasses and turned to face you with a look of pity. “Sure it is, son. Why don’t I call you a cab home?”

And that's your last clear memory of the night. The rest is just... a blurred mess.  

You curl yourself into ball, trying to get as close as possible to the warm surface under you. You're feeling a bit dizzy from the booze, and your mouth is uncomfortably dry, but apart from that you're good. You must still be in that strange twilight zone between drunk and hangover. 

There's a low, continuous sound in the room, coming from somewhere above you. You don't mind it, you're just too groggy to check it out. It would be nice to know exactly where you are, though. With a little bit of effort, it starts coming back to you in bits and pieces, then all at once. It was like slipping on marbles: you remember one detail, then another, and before you know it you find yourself falling flat on your arse. The realisation hits you like a truck: you're lying on top of a person. That person is breathing (thank God). That person is speaking. That person is _Murdoc_.

After the bartender had offered to call you a cab, you'd thanked him profusely and told him how much you loved the cabs here ( _"cause they're all smooth an' yellow, like butter"_ ). You'd dozed off on the ride home, waking up to the cabbie barking at you to sod off and grumbling about stupid drunkards making him drive all this way out to the middle of nowhere. The house had been completely dark, and getting up to Murdoc's room had been a piece of work. You remember barging into his room and acting like a lovesick fool. Your carefully thought-out plan about how you were going to convince him to give you a shot had fallen apart the moment he opened the door.

But it wasn't your fault! he was just so lovely, standing there in the doorway looking all pissed off and sexy, and you were so drunk and so very, very much in love. 

And that was how you'd gotten here. You almost wish you hadn't remembered now.

The fact that you don't jolt like a panic-stricken cat is a miracle. For a few seconds, you can't distinguish any of Murdoc's words through the hammering of your heart; whatever confidence you'd had when you'd waltzed into the room, it's gone now. What was even happening? Why hadn't Murdoc thrown you out? Despite his recent change in behaviour, one thing had remained the same: he was _not_ a morning person, and anyone who interrupted even one minute of his "beauty sleep" was to face his unrelenting wrath. You must've looked like a right mess, if he'd let you stay --and fall asleep on top of him at that. 

 _Better pretend to be asleep, then_ , you tell yourself. If that had been the only reason Murdoc had shown indulgence this time, you didn't want to wake up and endure his fury. 

He doesn't seem furious, though. Far from it, actually. His chest is rising and falling peacefully under you, and there's a warm weight against your back. Is he... is he holding you? 

"2D," you hear him whisper, and you hold your breath for half a second, before remembering that you're supposed to be asleep. "Stu. My little Stu-pot." 

Your face heats up, and you're glad the room is too dark for him to see. It's been a long time since he's called you these names, cute little pet names he'd made up for you years ago. You'd always been a fan of nicknames, but Murdoc has used them less and less since the band's reunion; it's like he's been... wary of them, of what they could mean. There's got to be a reason why he finds it in himself to call you that now. You prick your ears up and listen intently, keeping your eyes resolutely closed. 

“I know this isn’t fair to you,” he’s saying, one hand gently caressing your hair; the other is holding yours, interlocking talented green fingers with your elongated digits. “Only tellin’ you this when yer sleepin’ and I know you can’t hear me. But I’m not like you, Dents. I can’t… I can’t jus’ tell people how I feel ‘bout them. Least of all you.”

His voice is slightly above the volume of a whisper, but so calm you have to strain your ears to hear it. The quiet darkness of the room reminds you of an unmoving sea and Murdoc’s words flow through it like silent submarines, never breaking the surface.

“Shit, I’ve never been good at this,” he curses, and you feel his fingers tense up between yours; you wish you could squeeze them to reassure him, tell him it’s okay, to take his time. “Talkin’ to you like this --it brings back memories, D. You wouldn’t remember, of course. Back when we first met --when you were in a coma-- I talked to you, sometimes. I told you an awful lot o’ stuff about myself, I remember. ‘Bout you, too. I used to call ya names an’ laugh about it, ‘cause I knew you couldn’t hear me. Thought it was pretty funny at the time.”

Well, that stung a bit. You guess it was to be expected from the kind of person Murdoc had been at the time. It wasn’t like he’d changed much afterwards --not until recently, anyways.

“I yelled at you a couple times, too. I was pissed off ‘bout that judge sayin’ I had to carry you around with me. What kinda judge puts a comatose kid under the care of the bloke who banged ‘im up in the first place? Bunch o' bollocks, if ye ask me... I sang to you sometimes, too. I’d come up with lyrics an’ have no one to share ‘em with, so I’d try them out on you. You never said anythin’ back, so I could always fool myself into thinkin’ maybe you liked ‘em. I figured if my singin’ voice couldn’t wake you up, nothin’ would. I’m glad I was wrong.”

You're glad about that too. You think about Murdoc being alone, spending his nights with a crowd of whores and party people but not having a single friend to share his days with. You think about yourself laying unconscious in a bed, or propped up like a mannequin on a chair, and Murdoc reading out his lyrics to what might as well have been an empty room. You want to tell him you’re sure they were wonderful; that you’re glad you got to sing them out loud.

“Yer the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Stu. I wish I was brave enough to say it to your face. I did, once --sort of. Remember our interview with Mista Jams, 2D? Remember when he asked us what was the happiest moment in our lives? I told him the truth. Not the part about my trousers exploding; I mean the part about meetin’ you. I’ve always wanted you to know that, D.”

So he hadn’t been joking at the time. You don’t remember the whole interview, only bits and pieces, but you definitely remember that part, the way you perked up as the words rolled off Murdoc’s tongue with ease. _“The happiest moment of my life, really, was when I met 2D.”_ He’d wasted no time shooting down whatever hopes you’d been harboring, and all you could say in response to that was a dejected, _“oh.”_ It’d felt like expecting a nice snack (like a whole wheel of camembert, for example) and getting a punch to the gut instead.

You can’t be mad at Murdoc for that, though. Not now. Not when he sounds so… afraid. _If you’ve always wanted me to know that, why didn’t you tell me?_ you want to ask. _It would’ve made me so happy, you have no bloody idea._

“I know I’ve treated you awfully. Trust me, I know that better than anyone. Keeps me up at night, an’ I try to fall asleep by countin’ all the “I'm sorries” I owe you. It usually does the trick."

You frown against his chest. Didn’t people usually count sheep to fall asleep? No one should ever have to go to sleep thinking about all their mistakes and regrets. What kind of horrid dreams could you expect after that? You picture Murdoc tossing and turning in his bed at night, eyes burning holes into the ceiling, and you feel a pang. You wish he’d spend his nights with you instead. Then you could snuggle into his arms, and he could go to sleep counting tons of fluffy sheep with sky blue wool. Now wouldn’t that be so much nicer?

"I owe you so much, Stu, so many apologies I don’t even know where to start. I know I should say this to yer face instead o' hiding from you like this, but bloody hell, s' like... s’ like the minute the words "I'm sorry" leave my mouth, I’ll be cut open in front of you, an' you’ll be able to pick an’ prod at all my ugly parts. Lord knows you’d have more than enough to keep yerself busy.”

 _Fuck._ You've never heard Murdoc talk about himself this way --and sounding so serious, too, like he believes every word of it. It makes you want to cry --and baffles you a little, too, because how could he think that you'd be so cruel as to pick and prod at his ugly parts? What he's doing now --apologising and opening up to you-- is definitely not one of his "ugly parts." It's the best and purest part of him you've ever seen. It hurts that he's going to such lengths to make sure you don't see it. 

“I can do that now, though," he adds after a pause."I can tell you sorry now. It’s easier now ‘cause I could never be scared of ya when yer asleep. You’re beautiful when you’re sleeping. I think I’ve told you that before, too.”

His hand comes down to cradle your cheek and softly brush a few stray strands of hair from your eyes. Does he remember every little thing you've said to each other? You squirm the way a sleeping person would, resisting the urge to press into his touch and turn your face towards his warm palm. 

“I’m sorry I ran you over with my car, 2D. Sorry I busted yer eyes an’ yer brains an’ turned your whole life upside down. That was never part o’ the plan. I like to think you enjoyed being part o’ the band all these years --enjoyed the music, at least. I don’t like to think about the life you could’ve had if I hadn’t crashed into it. Satan, I sure hope you weren’t some kind o’ genius. I’d feel like I wrecked the Mona Lisa or somethin’.”

“I’m sorry ‘bout what happened with Paula," he goes on, and your guts twist uncomfortably at her name. "I acted like a right tosser, an’ I made you cry."

He's right; you had cried about it. Not in front of him or Russ, but later, when you were alone in your room and Paula had left with all her stuff. You didn't know Murdoc had heard you; or that he even cared.

"I never fancied her, if you were wonderin'. She was a crap guitarist, an’ I thought if I broke you two up, she’d leave the band. It made me mad, seein’ you with her all the time. You were jus’ so bloody happy, yer face lightin’ up like a fuckin’ jack o’ lantern whenever she walked into the room. I couldn’t figure out what you saw in her."

Murdoc clears his throat, and you hear him crack his knuckles like you know he does whenever he's embarrassed. When he speaks up again, he sounds restless and sulky, like a child who knows he shouldn't be holding a grudge but can't quite let go of it yet. "You didn’t know how far out of her league you were, an’ she acted like you were lucky to lick the dirt off her shoes. It pissed me off. I didn’t like the way she strutted around like she owned the place, yellin’ an’ naggin’ an’ drinkin’ all the time. I thought she was no better than me, and yet she got to be with you. I dunno if I wanted to get into her pants ‘cause I thought it was the closest I’d ever get to yours. I was right glad to see her go; I jus’ wish it hadn’t taken breakin’ yer heart.”

He falls silent for a while, and you're grateful for it. You feel like you need some time to process all you've just heard. In all the years you've worked together, Murdoc has never mentioned the Paula Cracker incident. You never brought it up either, figuring that it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. You'd never known his motivations behind sleeping with her. You thought it was just something he did to piss you off. At the time, you'd seen it as a spiteful gesture done to show you just how little you meant to him, and that had hurt you --perhaps even more than Paula's betrayal. 

“I’m sorry for what I did to you on Plastic Beach, 2D," the bassist says. He speaks slower now, more distinctly, like he's measuring every word he says. He's still holding your hand, his palm starting to feel sweaty against yours. You know this is it: Murdoc's greatest regret and the heaviest cross he has to bear, much heavier than the small metal one that hangs around his neck. "For the kidnappin’, the whale --everythin’. I really outdid myself that time. I think I went a bit crazy, after you left an’ Russ left an’ Noodle was gone. I tol’ myself if Gorillaz as I knew it was over, I’d still be able to make music an’ keep my dream alive. But I needed you. I couldn’t even think o’ makin’ an album that wouldn’t have yer voice in it.

“I know you still have nightmares about that time, Stu. You talk in yer sleep sometimes, moan an’ go on about some whale or other. Makes me want to hold you an’ say everythin’s gonna be alright. Then I remember that I’m the one who put you there. An’ I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do, 2D, cause if I’m the one who put you out there then what’s the big difference between me an’ that blasted whale? I try to make you feel safe, but who am I kidding? I must be right there beside the whale in yer nightmares. You really are an idiot --a bloody, incomprehensible fool. You have a thousand more reasons to be afraid o’ me than of that poor fish, but when I hug you during yer nightmares, you snuggle right into my arms like you haven’t got a care in the world. You say I’m smart, but no matter how hard I try I jus’ can’t make sense of yer head, pretty fool.”

Murdoc’s voice is hesitant, his tone incredulous. There’s a hint of marvel in his words, but also frustration. It makes your throat tight. It’s not like you really know what to do about your feelings, either; you never asked to have them in the first place. You didn’t mean to make things difficult for him.

He chuckles bitterly, sighs as he drapes his other arm across your back and pulls you closer. “Now I’m really glad yer not hearin’ any of this, 2D. It’d hurt your feelings to hear me say stuff like this: it’d make you think that I don’t want you, that you loving me makes me unhappy. That’s the furthest thing from the truth, songbird. It’s jus’ that I… I’d thought I’d worked everything out. You lovin’ me… it opens up a brand new world of possibilities. When you tell me that, it makes me feel like I could be happy --actually, properly happy, an’ not jus’ less miserable. Can you believe that? Satan, it makes me dizzy jus’ to think of it.”

A little laugh makes its way past his lips. It shakes his whole frame, but only for a bit, less than a second; his body stills again, resumes its normal breathing like some ancient machine that’s grown accustomed to the same heavy, monotone rhythm.

“Sometimes I get real hopeful, Stu; I start thinkin’ bout the two of us, together, sharin’ a room, sharin’ a bed. Wakin’ up together in the mornings, havin’ breakfast with Russ an’ Noodle, givin’ interviews after a show. Tellin’ the whole world we’re an item. Then we’d go home an’ shag all night long; you’d be beautiful, naked an’ smiling, and I’d finally be able to put my hands all over you. You’d sing our favorite songs right into my ear an’ your kisses would make me forget who I am. We’d go to sleep an’ I’d get to hold you all night, calm you through your nightmares without worryin' about whether or not I’m in them. We’d wake up the next morning an’ it’d be the same thing all over again, forever."

Murdoc stops there, stiffens a bit. You want to frown at that. It gives you the same kind of frustration as when the telly is making weird sounds and you have to shake it a little to get it working properly again. You wish you could grab the man's shoulders and shake him, too. _Give me more,_ you want to ask him. _Tell me more about how happy we could be together._

Instead, he lets out an awkward little scoff. "Heh, I can only imagine how freaked out you’d be if you could hear the nonsense comin’ from my mouth. You tell me you love me a few times, an’ I start fantasizing ‘bout the two of us actin’ like some kind of married couple.”

 _Bollocks._ The only thing that freaks you out right now is how much that _doesn't_ freak you out. Out of the depths of the heavy silence that fills the room, you hear something that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle. Every muscle in your body goes limp as it dawns on you. Is Murdoc choking back _tears_?

You don't have time to ponder that before your band mate readjusts his position and presses you closer, tightening his hold on you as if it calms him. It calms you, too. You're pretty sure that seeing Murdoc cry would make you start crying as well. Thankfully the bassist is not as big a pansy as you are; when he starts talking again, his voice is much more controlled --unbearably sorrowful, but steady. 

“You know how greedy I can be, Stu. That’s why you really ought to be more careful with what you say. If you give me a piece of yer love, you can bet yer pretty arse I’m gonna want all of it. S’ a right miracle that you even want to be with me after everythin’ I’ve done to you. But one miracle won’t be enough for me; I’ll ask for two. You say I’m the smartest man you’ve ever met, but I’m no genius; I’m just good at mappin’ out the roads in front of me. An’ I know where this one ends, bluebird. No road that I’m on can lead to anywhere good.”

“Nevermind. Nevermind all o’ that," he grunts. It sounds like his teeth are clenched. "I’m sorry, love. For all the times I’ve pushed you around an’ called you names, for all the bottles an’ shoes I’ve thrown at you. I’m sorry for all the times I made fun o’ you during interviews, or said that yer lyrics were rubbish. The Fall was one o’ the best albums I’ve heard in my life." He interrupts himself to press a kiss to the top of your head, burying his nose into your hair and taking a deep inhale. "I’m sorry for busting yer eyes an’ yer brains. I’m sorry for lockin’ you in that awful cell. I’m sorry for makin’ you so afraid all the time because I thought it was the only way to keep you from leaving.”

 _No, not nevermind!_ you want to scream at him. How could he say all that and then think he could just “nevermind” it away?

There’s a familiar ache in your chest that tells you you’re about to start sobbing like a baby. You clench your fists as a small whine escapes your throat. Immediately, Murdoc’s hand comes up to cradle your head and he shushes you gently. “Shh, it’s okay, love. Sleep tight an’ don’t you worry none. I’ll be right here with you all night.”

 _And when the sun comes up, what then?_ you want to ask, but your lips and eyes stay shut. It takes a lot of effort to keep your breathing even. You don’t look up, but you know that Murdoc’s eyes are open, peering into the darkness of the room as he holds you --standing guard, like a watchful gargoyle perched on top of a plastic tower.

Your hand rests above his sternum, and you keep track of every beat of his heart. If Murdoc can watch over you, you can watch over him just the same. You’ll protect each other through the long hours of the night, until the sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooookay. First of all, I'm sorry it took me this long to update. Most of Murdoc's monologue to 2D is based on personal experience, so that's probably why it was a bit hard for me to get that out. From what I know of him, he seems like the kind of person who has a really, really hard time apologising (not necessarily for the reasons one might think) and I can relate to that on some level.  
> Also I tried to incorporate a few details from the recent interviews, because they've been so hilarious and adorable (did anyone find that video of 2D eating an entire wheel of camembert btw????) Anyway, I hope you enjoy! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Murdoc is scared shitless by commitment and 2D takes charge.

You open your eyes to a room already flooded with sunlight. You can’t see the alarm clock from your position, but you’re pretty sure it’s way past noon. _Well, so much for leaving before sunrise._

You groan and it turns into a yawn that practically distends your jaw and brings tears to your eyes. You rub at them tiredly, gazing down at the messy head of blue hair nuzzled against your chest.

In his sleep, 2D has somehow managed to wrap the blankets over himself, trapping the both of you in some sort of uncomfortably tight blanket burrito. It makes you chuckle softly to yourself. The singer starts at the noise and looks up at you with a little smile.

“Mornin’, sleepy ‘ead,” he says, voice clear and devoid of sleepiness. He must’ve been awake for a while already. “Sleep well?”

You smile back at him and rest your hand on the top of his head. His hair is so soft and warm, you could spend the whole day petting him like a puppy. “You bet. How long have you been up?”

2D yawns unrestrainedly, the wide gap in his teeth making him look like a sleepy kid from a cartoon. It’s oddly endearing, and your heart melts even more when he closes his eyes and rests his chin contently on your torso. “Mmm, I dunno for sure,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean ta fall asleep. I woke up once when it was still dark outside an’ you were still here, so I was relieved an’ figured I could jus’ stay here for a bit.”

You hum approvingly, ready to resume petting his hair when it hits you. “Wait. What d’ya mean, you didn’t mean ta fall asleep? An’ why were you relieved that I was still here?”

It comes out sounding harsher than you expected. 2D immediately sits up straight, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. 

“Well, y’know, I jus’ wanted to stay awake as long as possible,” he says in a shaky voice. “Since you said you were stayin’ until sunrise, I figured it meant you’d leave i’ the mornin’...”

“Stay awake?” you exclaim loudly. “So you were awake the whole time?! You heard me say I’d stay here until mornin’?”

2D’s eyes are dark and impossibly wide with fear. Is he afraid you’re about to hit him? _Why wouldn’t he be?_ a nasty voice whispers in your head. _That’s what he’s used to now._

You wiggle out of the blankets and stand in the middle of the room, your back turned to him. You can’t breathe. You’ve been so stupid, so bloody stupid.

You hear 2D shuffle behind you and almost trip over his own feet in his haste to get up. You risk one glance at him: he looks completely crestfallen, eyes even more fearful than they were a second ago. What could he be afraid of now? You’re not going to hit him. He knows you’re not going to hit him.

“Muds, wha’s the matter?” he asks, in a soft little voice that makes your chest ache. He sounds positively heartbroken.

You look away. You can’t be with him right now, you can’t even bear to stay in the same room as him. You have to get away. In an ironic turn of events, you lunge for the open window and attempt to squeeze your body out of it.

The singer’s hand is immediately at your foot, long fingers grabbing your ankle with surprising strength. “Murdoc, what are ya doing?” he yelps, pulling back on your leg as you kick and squirm to get out of his grasp.

“What does it look like I’m doin’, dullard?” you bark at him, trying desperately to open the window a bit further. “I’m escaping! An’ it’d be a whole lot easier if ya weren’t holdin’ on to my foot, idiot!”

“I’m not lettin’ go! Ya don’t get to jump out o’ the window jus’ to avoid talking to me, Muds!”

“Oh, yeah? What makes it alright for you to do it then?”

There’s a pause as 2D lets your words sink in. “...Oh, alright, point taken. But that doesn’t change the fact that it was a stupid thing to do then, an’ it’s still a stupid thing to do now! C’mon, Muds, yer smarter than that! We can talk about this, yeah?”

You look over your shoulder at 2D holding onto your leg with a pleading expression on his face, and suddenly it hits you just how ridiculous the whole situation is. You’re a grown man sucking your gut and wiggling your way out of a window because you’re too scared to talk about your feelings. _Pathetic._ With a sigh, you stop struggling against the singer’s hold and let yourself slide down from the window.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, though. 2D still looks nervous and on edge, black eyes fixed on you as if he’s ready to see you take off at any moment.

 _Fuck_. “Well how much did ya hear?” you ask him between clenched teeth, only daring to look at him from the corner of your eyes.

In his defense, 2D looks a bit sheepish. He twiddles his fingers as he takes a step towards you, nervously. “N-Not much,” he squeaks out, and blushes --he’s always been a terrible liar. “Jus’ that you were sorry ‘bout runnin’ me over with your car, an’ sleepin’ with Paula when she was my girlfriend, an’ for the whole thing with Plastic Beach... “

You feel your skin crawl as the singer continues his enumeration. You cut him off with a groan, hiding your face in your palms. “So ya heard everythin’.”

“... Pretty much, yeah.” 2D is silent for a while, shuffling his feet on the floor. The tension grows and fills up the room until you can almost hear the floorboards creak under the pressure. “Look, Murdoc, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“Didn’t mean to?” you burst out, looking up at him and you know he can see the wild, full-blown panic in your eyes. “How can you say you didn’t mean to, you nunce? You knew I thought you were asleep, an’ you kept on pretendin’ anyway! All you had to do to shut me up was to tell me, “hey Murdoc, in case ya didn’t notice, I’m awake an’ I can hear every word of yer idiotic, sentimental rambling!””

“I didn’t know what ta do, Muds!” he retorts desperately, his voice cracking slightly at the end and he’s got that pleading look in his eyes again, painfully similar to the one he used to get when he was afraid you’d start hitting him. It hits you smack in the chest like a war hammer, and you feel like pulling your hair out. Great, now you’ve made him afraid of you again. _Good going, you bloody idiot, you can’t do anything right, can you?_

“It took me by surprise, alright?” 2D continues, his pretty face twisted in confusion and misery. “I was still a bit drunk an’ my head was all woozy, then I wake up on yer chest with no idea how I got there, an’ I hear you sayin’ all those things…” He blushes again and looks down at those big clown feet of his, and you feel your heart twist on itself like a wad of gum because he’s just so adorable. “I didn’t know what ta do, an’ you can’t pin this all on me, either. You jus’ assumed I was asleep!”

“Well, yeah, I thought that was a pretty reasonable _assumption_ to make when you stumbled into my room an’ started snorin’ on top o’ me!”

“You’re the one who started talkin’ to me, Murdoc! Obviously that’s got to mean you wanted me ta hear it, right? Why would you start talkin’ to someone if ya didn’t want ‘em ta hear you?”

2D sighs and his shoulders sag; the sight is almost comical, in a pathetic way, like a deflating balloon. He looks worried and genuinely at a loss, like you’re some awfully complicated problem he just can’t figure out.

“I don’t get it, Muds,” he mumbles dejectedly. “I know… I think I know you wanted me to hear you say those things. Yer… apologies an’ whatnot. Now you say you wished I’d woken up an’ told you to shut up. But I didn’t want ya to shut up. I don’t understand why yer so mad that I heard you now. Last night you seemed so desperate ta get yer words through to me.”

 _Desperate_. Your skin prickles at the word. Your pride gnashes its teeth, roars and swirls inside of you like a massive wave; but one glance at the bluenette is all it takes for it to die down. He looks so concerned standing there, so awkward and unsure, it’s obvious he means no harm to you. He’s never meant any harm, so why did you spend so many years lashing out at him like you were defending yourself against some big, dangerous threat?

He takes another step towards you and you step back instinctively, cursing yourself for it --what is this, hunting? 2D looks hurt for a second, before his face morphs into an expression of quiet determination. He steps forward again.

“I never wanted to upset you,” he says tentatively, but in a firm voice. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on what you were sayin’... invade yer privacy o’ whatever. Though you were speakin’ to me. I dunno why there’d be some big secret that only sleepin’ me would be allowed to know about.” He’s closer than you thought; you tense as you feel his hand reach cautiously for your face, brushing past the hair in your eyes. “But I won’t apologize for listenin’, cause I’m not sorry.”

He falters a bit at that, as if surprised by his own boldness. That’d make two of you. Shock is probably the only thing that’s keeping you rooted to the spot right now; without that, you’d have bolted a long time ago. You’ve never seen or heard 2D like this, being so… brave. An ironic wave of pride warms your heart. _My brave little Stu-pot._

His other hand comes up to cradle your face, fingers gently coaxing you to lift your chin. It takes so much effort for you to do so --it’s as if your head was carved out of stone, a heavy, stern-looking monument that hasn’t been moved in ages-- but you mentally kick yourself into giving in to his soft touch, and when you do his lips meet yours in a tiny, feather-light kiss. _Best reward ever._

He pulls back way too early, and you’re left staring at his face like a thirsty man standing in front of an oasis in the desert. He’s standing so close now that the height difference between you is striking; you usually don’t notice it, what with him snuggling against your side all the time when you’re in bed. You have to slightly tilt your face upwards to meet his gaze. 

Those eyes pull you in, standing out from his face like black rhinestones. They’ve always reminded you of an animal’s eyes: so blank when the singer spaced out, but sometimes glinting with an alert, incredibly soulful gleam. 2D’s eyes are beautiful the way a young colt’s eyes are, all dark and warm under long eyelashes. His bed-hair sticks up in all directions, splashed with sunlight flooding in from the window; you want to bury your hands in it.

You don’t have time to move before he leans in and wraps his arms around you in a tight hug, his chin resting snugly on your shoulder. His hair tickles your ear and you gulp, your throat suddenly too dry.

“M’ sorry Muds,” 2D murmurs, contradicting his earlier claim. “I don’t want to make ya angry or anythin’, but I don’t want to lie to you either. An’ the truth is that I could never be sorry for hearin’ all that stuff you said last night. No matter what happens between us… even if you never want anythin’ to do with me after this, I won’t ever regret hearin’ it. That was very courageous, what you did. I know it must’ve taken a lot of strength to say all those things, an’ I want to thank you for that. It meant a whole lot ta me.”

He pulls you in a bit closer and sighs contentedly, the vibrations echoing deeply in your own chest. Against your will, you feel yourself start to relax; you try to resist it, remind yourself to keep it together, don’t get sucked in too deep, but it’s hopeless; his warmth slowly seeps into your bones and melts your tension away, more easily and faster than snow melting into spring. Your hands come up as if of their own accord and rest on his skinny back, fingers curving to follow the angles of his shoulder blades.

“In case ya didn’t know, I forgive you,” he says matter-of-factly. “I think I forgave you a long time ago for most o’ the things you did ta me. Maybe that’s jus’ me bein’ stupid, but if that’s the case then I don’t want to be smart. You’ve always told me that forgivin’ people is hard, but not forgivin’ them is exhausting. I think I might’ve died if I hadn’t been able to forgive you; so I won’t let you die because you can’t forgive yerself.”

Your throat feels so constricted, you surprise yourself when you attempt to talk and actually find your voice. “I don’t know how,” you croak out, wincing at how vulnerable you sound. “I… I don’t know how to forgive myself, 2D. I don’t know how you did it. I… I couldn’t even apologize to you without thinking you were asleep.”

“It’s ok,” he answers sweetly. “I’ll teach you how. I’ll probably be a crap teacher at first,” he chuckles embarrassedly, “but we’ll work through it, yeah? I want to try it, Muds. Everythin’ you talked about --wakin’ up together, shaggin’ every night, goin’ public-- I want it all.”

Your heart starts hammering so fast in your chest, you’re afraid you’re about to go into cardiac arrest. Your ears are ringing with memories of everything you said last night --lovesick nonsense, all of it. Dread creeps up on you like a huge, skeletal spider slowly crawling up your body, paralyzing you. Your palms feel clammy. What the hell are you doing? What are you getting yourself into? It’s stupid and dangerous, letting 2D say such things to you, way too dangerous. He’s offering you so much: it’s far too much to be reasonable and everything you can't let yourself want.

This won’t turn out well, you already know it --you’ve known it all in advance for a long time. You’re too dysfunctional, too fucked up, too twisted and _wrong_ inside for anything good to come out of this. Your mind goes into overdrive, already picturing your mess of a relationship implode like an overripe watermelon tumbling down the stairs, spraying gory, blood-red pulp everywhere. In a flash, you see it all: the kisses, the cuddles, the sex, the honeymoon phase with its smiles and pleasantries, then the awkwardness, the inevitable staleness, the petty fights growing more and more common with the growing pressure of work, 2D becoming progressively miserable in your company, and finally the fateful day when you’d snap and do something stupid. It’s already there, fresh and vivid in your mind; it’s all already written and now what? You’re expected to play this out like some kind of awful Taylor Swift song?

2D’s neck smells like a mixture of sleep, booze, and sweat; it’s exquisite and you’re so tempted to nuzzle against him and inhale his scent. You feel a rush of dizziness, like a man standing on the edge of a skyscraper and looking down towards the bustling city miles below. It’s the most seductive and most dangerous kind of vertigo you've ever experienced. Just in time, you take a step back.

“I-I gotta go, 2D,” you stammer, trying to ignore how panicked you sound. “Let me go, 2D.”

Your hands clasp his shoulders and try to push him back, but he’s not budging. He tightens his hold on you and shakes his head; you can practically see his eyebrows furrowing and his mouth twisting into a stubborn pout. _Crap._ He must’ve sensed you were about to run.

“Let me go, 2D,” you repeat fiercely, digging your nails into his shoulders. “I mean it.”

“No.”

“What d’ya mean, _no_? I’m tellin’ you to let go of me, idiot!”

“I mean that I won’t let ya run away from me again,” 2D replies sharply. “Yer always runnin’ from me in some way or another an’ you can’t keep doing that, mate. Even when yer apologizing to me, or to Noodle or Russ, an’ feelin’ guilty, I reckon that’s a way of runnin’ away too. S’ like yer escapin’ into feelin’ sorry for yerself, instead o’ trying to fix things properly. Well I told you I forgive you, so there’s no need to keep beatin’ yerself up about it. S’ not productive.”

You want to retort, _“since when have you been focused on bein’ productive anyway?”_ or some other sarcastic comment, but you decide for once in your life to bite your tongue. Deep down, you know he’s right: there is something pathetic and disgustingly self-indulgent about moping around and feeling guilty. It’s almost like deluding yourself into thinking that feeling guilty is enough to make amends for the shitty stuff you’ve done. Once again, you tell yourself that you owe it to 2D to make him happy in whatever way you can… except by actually being with him. _Not that. It’s too scary._

You squirm feebly in his grasp. He’s not even grabbing you that hard; his hold is loose enough that you could easily escape it if you really tried, and you have a feeling that he’s making it that way on purpose. _Sneaky little bastard._ When had 2D gotten so clever? More importantly, when had you gotten so weak?

“You seem pretty sure of yerself,” you grunt in a half-hearted attempt at lying yourself out of the situation. “Maybe I don’t even want a relationship with you. Maybe I was pullin’ yer leg.”

“I know you weren’t,” 2D retorts, and you’re taken aback by just how certain he sounds. “You can’t lie to me anymore, Muds. I know how you really feel ‘bout me now.” There’s definitely a teasing edge in his voice. _What a little shit_. “S’ only fair if ya think about it, Muds. I tol’ you how I feel about you. I reckon I never would’ve known how you felt if I hadn’t heard you last night. So you can say it wasn’t fair all you want, but now we’re finally on the same level.”

He pulls back slightly to look at you, smug expression complete with a shit-eating grin on his face. You scowl at him, one last ditch attempt to sew back together the tattered remnants of your dignity.

“You tryin’ to intimidate me, Dents?”

His expression softens then, smirk turning into a fond smile. _This bloke is such a beautiful fool._ Only 2D would be able to find anything endearing in your pitiful aggressiveness.

“Nah, mate. We’re done fightin’, you an’ I. I jus’ don’t want you to feel alone anymore, Muds.”

He looks adoringly into your eyes. The trust and devotion you see in his takes you back to the very first days of Gorillaz, before the whole Paula Cracker incident happened and he realized just how big of a tosser you were. The difference is that the blind, puppy love and admiration is gone now, replaced by a softer, more lucid tenderness. As cliché as it sounds, it’s like he knows all of your worst parts and loves you anyway. You scoff inwardly; of course the sunlight had to fall just so around his head at this exact moment. For Satan’s sake, the singer looks like he’s got a bloody halo above his head.

You’ve always adamantly refused to pay attention to any religious "signs", but try as you might, you can’t help but feel like you’re seeing 2D in a whole new light. Standing in front of you is a man; not a lost little boy, not an awkward teenager dressed in an adult suit, needing guidance and protection from the world, but a man. A talented, sincere, brave and beautiful man, a man with enough balls to stand in front of an arsehole who’s given him nothing but abuse for years, and tell him that he loves him. This man takes your breath away, and it makes your heart skip a beat to realize that you might’ve never gotten to see him if you hadn’t revealed to 2D just how afraid you were.

But there's no hiding it from him now. He's staring at you now, a silent question gleaming in his dark eyes: _do you have the balls to give this a try?_

Your throat feels like it's obstructed by a huge ball of cotton. _For Satan’s sake, don’t start crying now_. You swallow a couple times, blink as if you’ve got all the sand of the Sahara stuck in your eye, but it doesn’t hide the fact that you’re choking up. 2D’s hand is cradling your face again, thumb lightly brushing against your lower lip. You struggle to speak.

“I want you, 2D,” you finally manage to get out, and the smile that lights up his face is blinding. “I… I’m…”

“I know yer scared,” he tells you, voice steady and you want to grab onto it like a lifeline. “I’m scared too, y’know. But we can make it work. I love you, an’ you love me, an’ we can make it work, Murdoc. S’ the simplest thing in the world.”

His lips are on your neck, planting light butterfly kisses on your skin. There’s still an intolerable little voice in the back of your mind, telling you to make him stop, he’s stupid and doesn’t know better, you should tell him, you know it’s all gonna go to hell, you shouldn’t let him do this--

_Do you have the balls to give this a try?_

“I’m smarter than you, you know,” you grunt, already out of breath. Apparently, you're a huge cunt even when you're not trying to be one. 

But 2D doesn’t seem to mind. He tilts his head to look at you with the same idiotic grin that had made so many fans swoon in your Dirty Harry video.

“I dunno, mate,” he says innocently. “Ya can’t be that smart if you fancy me, right?”

_The answer is yes._

You let out a breathless chuckle, smiling even though your eyes are wet. “That’s a load of bollocks. Fancyin’ you is the smartest thing I’ve ever done, an’ if that’s not smart, then I’d rather be as dumb as you are.”

2D’s face lights up as if you’ve just showered him with praise, before he gets back to work on your neck. You thank Satan that the idiot’s so easy to please. You know it’ll take you a while to start getting used to giving proper compliments, terms of endearment and all that. It was easier when you could just pretend that it was only meaningless sex: the sweet talk came to you as effortlessly as the dirty talk. Now that everything’s been revealed in the open, it feels like you’ve gone back to square one. Words like “darling” and “love” mean something different after a confession.

It doesn’t matter. You’ll take the time you need to take, and when you’re ready you’ll be able to call him whatever you want again. For now 2D will have to do with your muffled grunts and pants and the way your hands grab at the back of his shirt to pull him closer. He seems amply satisfied, if the growing hardness in his trousers is anything to go by. You can tell he’s getting carried away by the sudden haste in his kisses; his lips latch hungrily onto any inch of skin he finds, breath coming out in short puffs and soft little noises that sound like broken moans. He clumsily nudges a knee between your legs and you spread them generously, allowing him to grind against you. 

The friction is heavenly and you accidentally let out an embarrassingly loud groan. The singer shivers delightedly at the sound and pulls back just enough to stare into your face, dark eyes glazed over with lust. “I want you so bad, Muds,” he whispers in a strangled voice. “Y’have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.”

He’s in no mood for foreplay today, and frankly neither are you. Your blood is pounding in your ears and urges you to get close to him, as close as physically possible, right now. Your head spins: it’s vertigo once again. Your feet are getting closer to the building’s ledge and you know that resistance is no longer an option.

You reach out and gently cup his chin in your hand, marvelling at his pleased whimper and the little pink tongue that swipes across his chapped lower lip. “I think I can make a pretty good estimation,” you reply, before slamming your mouths together. _Fuck it_ , you think. _I already jumped a long time ago._

2D is a messy kisser when he’s horny, you muse absentmindedly. His hands come up to clasp your shoulders as his tongue explores your mouth like he wants to devour you from the inside out. His lips move clumsily against yours, fast and rough, getting saliva everywhere and barely giving you enough time to breathe, but you don’t care. You don’t need air right now; you need _him_. His hands make their way underneath your shirt, greedily roving over your chest before lightly raking their nails against your back. It makes you purr and you’re about to return the favor before 2D curses under his breath and starts fumbling with your belt.

 _He’s not wasting any time, is he?_ You smirk approvingly, busying yourself with unbuckling his --if he wants to speed things up, you’re certainly not making any objections. You’re a bit surprised, however, when he finally discards your belt and plunges his hands underneath the waistband of your jeans, letting out a sigh of satisfaction as he firmly grabs your arse.

“Eager, aren’t we?” you tease him, raising a questioning eyebrow.

You’re beyond delighted when the singer blushes a lovely shade of scarlet. He keeps his hands on your arse cheeks, fingers gently digging into soft flesh. You close your eyes and push back into his touch, relishing in the warmth of his hands.

“I don’t remember you being so handsy,” you say. “Never knew you loved my arse so much, Stu.”

You meant it playfully, but you must’ve hit the bull’s eye because 2D looks away and his blush deepens. “You’ve got a nice arse, okay?” he mutters bashfully, pouting a little. “S’ not my fault yer always walkin’ around in those low-riding jeans…”

 _This day just keeps getting better_ , you think, making a mental note to wear nothing but low-riding jeans from now on. You finally manage to pull down 2D’s trousers and boxers, exposing his already leaking cock. There’s no time for you to admire the view before the singer unzips your jeans; you watch intently with heated eyes and a dry mouth as he wraps his long pianist fingers around both of you and starts stroking, his movements made easier by the precome that’s gathered at the tip of your erections.

“Sweet Satan, 2D,” you curse, biting your lip hard enough to taste blood.

“M-Murdoc,” the bluenette breathes out, his hand picking up the pace. “Ah… shit…”

 _Damn it._ You’re getting way too close way too fast, and you’re not sure how long you’re going to last if 2D keeps twisting his wrist like _that_. You start thrusting gently into his grasp, the skin-to-skin contact at once too much and not enough. Looking at the singer doesn’t help, but you can’t take your eyes away from his face: with his eyes blissfully closed, chest heaving and lips slightly parted, he looks like the very picture of debauchery. High-pitched moans and whimpers spill from his lips like water from a fountain, bringing you dangerously closer to your completion; there’s no way it’s _legal_ to make such noises.

To shut him up, you kiss him. Satan, you’d missed the taste of his mouth. How long had it been since you’d last kissed him? Twenty-four hours, if that? You’d barely spent one day apart and yet you were snogging and grinding like two teenage sweethearts who hadn’t seen each other for a whole summer. But you can’t help that his kisses are so addictive, and you’d spent the last twenty-four hours or so thinking that you might never get to taste them again: one day might as well have been half of eternity.

Right when you’re about to tether over the edge, 2D takes his hand away. Before you can complain, he brings his fingers to his lips and starts sucking on them, rolling his tongue over them and coating them with saliva, his gaze never leaving yours. It’s so fucking hot, it almost makes up for the lack of attention to your dick.

You’re taken aback when 2D removes the fingers from his mouth and says like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “Turn around.”

For a split second, you freeze. It’s been a long time since you’ve bottomed to anyone, and you’ve definitely never done it with 2D. Not that you have anything against it, per se. It’s just that you’ve gotten used to fucking him and since you both enjoyed it so much, it never occurred to you that he might want to switch things up. You shrug inwardly as you turn around to face the wall, hands splayed flat on either side of your body to brace yourself. After all, if there’s one domain in which 2D has as much experience as you, it’s sex. He knows what he’s doing and you trust him.

You can’t help but jolt a little when you feel a finger press against your entrance, wet and slightly cold. He huffs out a breathless laugh at your reaction, kisses you very sweetly behind your ear and runs his hand up and down your arm, as if to comfort you. You want to scoff at that; it’s not like you’ve never taken a cock up your arse before, for Satan’s sake. But the touching gesture warms your heart nonetheless; you think about the first time you’d done this, try to remember if you’d shown him the same thoughtfulness and kindness.

One thing you know is that you’d never imagined you’d get to shag him more than once. Now here you are, pushed up against a wall with his hands on your hips, his lips hot against the shell of your ear and he’s telling you that he wants more, more of this, every day and every night for as long as you can make it last.

You buck your hips impatiently against his hand. “What are ya waitin’ for, Dents?” you grunt. “On with it.”

He flusters at that; you can practically feel his face heat up against your neck, and fuck if it isn’t precious. “Oh, u-umm,” he stammers uncertainly. “Jus’, y’know, wanted to make sure you’re okay with this, Muds. You are okay with this, right?”

You groan under your breath, resisting the urge to facepalm right now. Of course 2D would get you all hot and worked up before stopping dead in his tracks to check if you’re “okay with this.” _This little tease really is too good for this world._

“S’ fine if it’s you,” you grumble as an answer, grateful that he can’t see the expression on your face. “Now hurry up before I change my mind, will ya?”

You hiss when he pushes one finger inside, but it’s not painful, just slightly uncomfortable; it’s been a while, after all. He moves slowly, careful not to hurt you; you push back against his hand, urging him to go faster and arching your back with a groan when he curves his finger. He pulls out and prods at your entrance with two fingers, hesitantly, as if he’s again asking you for permission, and all you can do is buck your hips to answer _yes, yes, yes for Satan’s sake._

There’s a slight ache as your walls squeeze around the two digits, but you don’t mind the pain; to be honest, you even enjoy it a little. 2D’s voice is in your ear, warm and gentle and whispering soft encouragements to you ( _“good, you’re doin’ great”, “jus’ hang in there an’ try to relax, okay?”_ ) like you’re some kind of virgin, and it’s the sweetest thing you can imagine. His fingers move inside you in a scissoring motion, stretching you out, when suddenly they hit _that_ spot and your entire body spasms against the wall.

2D snickers at your reaction. “Jackpot, mate,” he whispers with glee, and you’d be embarrassed if you could feel anything else but the need to be fucked.

He pulls out again, ready to insert a third finger when you cut him off. “No. No more fingers. I want you.”

You could’ve been more articulate about it, but you’re finding it harder and harder to come up with words. 2D stills behind you; it’s obvious he wants it as much as you do, what the hell is he waiting for?

“Are ya sure, Muds?” he asks nonetheless. “I don’t want to hurt you…”

You feel a strange pang at those words. You can’t even remember the last time you’ve been fucked by someone who treated you so gently and carefully, like you were fine china.

“You won’t hurt me,” you tell him. “Jus’ stop stalling an’ fuck me, alright? I won’t break.”  

You cover your mouth with your palm and bite down hard, when he finally, finally pushes in. Your mind goes blank; you hear a low voice muttering curses under its breath before you realize it’s you. He might not brag about it as much as you do, but 2D’s big; you’re reminded of that fact as his cock pushes deeper into you, every tiny movement both excruciating and mind-numbingly pleasurable. 2D makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat as he buries himself to the hilt inside you, and you can’t help but let out a little pained noise.

“Sorry, Muds,” 2D mumbles in your ear, hands rubbing your hip bones in a soothing motion. He whimpers, and you feel his dick twitch inside you.

“God, Murdoc,” he pants. “You feel… amazing…”

 _Right back at you_ , you want to tell him, because it’s true. You feel so deeply and achingly full, with his beautiful cock tightly squeezed by your inner walls. Fuck, why hadn’t you thought about doing this earlier?

“Move,” you growl, the sound slightly muffled by your hand. 

2D seems more than happy to oblige. His thrusts start out slow and shallow, but progressively grow deeper. It’s not long before you start moving along with them, bucking and pushing your arse back to meet his cock like an animal in heat. You remove your hand from your mouth and lay it over 2D's, too horny to give a shit about being loud. 

2D is loud too; the noises he makes aren’t quite as high-pitched and deliciously obscene as the one he makes when you fuck him, but they’re still one of the hottest things you’ve ever heard. You can tell he’s biting his lip and trying his best to be quiet; his breath hitches every time he thrusts into you, his balls slapping against the cleft of your arse.

“S-So tight…” he moans, fucking you faster now. “Fuckin’ hell, your arse is gorgeous…”

Your cock twitches at the words, and you shiver; 2D isn’t the only one who enjoys compliments during sex. You’re grateful you can’t see him right now: the sight of his lovely face flushed with arousal and his mouth open and panting as he slams his cock into you would make you come instantly.

“I used ta dream ‘bout doin’ this with you, Muds,” he tells you, poking his tongue out to lick up the beads of sweat gathering at the nape of your neck. “Never thought I’d get ta do it in real life.”

 _Me too, darling, me too,_ is what you want to answer, but your voice is having trouble getting out and all you can say is his name. So you say it again and again, try out all the nicknames you’ve come up for him over the ears, repeat them like a mantra. “2D,” you breathe out. “Stu… ah, fuck…”

“I fantasized… all the time… ‘bout you,” he continues, like he knows how it drives you crazy. “Used ta think ‘bout the two of us shaggin’ on the stage, in front of all our fans… Or you givin’ me a handjob under the table… during interviews… I jerked off when you brought birds home an’ I could hear the noises you made from my room…”

“Bloody hell, 2D,” you say, partly from pure disbelief. And to think you’d pegged him as a vanilla bloke. _What a cockslut._ Hearing about his fantasies is an incredible turn-on, especially because they happen to be eerily similar to yours. Who knows, you could make a list and decide to fulfill every single one of them together; the thought only makes your arousal burn hotter in the pit of your gut.

“Can’t believe… this is happenin’... right now… Aah, holy shit… Fuck, Murdoc… I jus’ want to do this all day, every day… jus’ you an’ me, yeah?”

You nodd fervently, almost banging your chin against the wall, because that sounds like a pretty good description of heaven --you never thought you’d go to heaven, but now that he’s inviting you in, how could you say no? Perhaps it doesn’t sound like the traditional representation of heaven, but you say bollocks to that. 2D and you in each other’s arms, shagging until the world ends --you’d take that over cloud palaces and fat cherubins any day.

You can feel yourself getting close, and you know 2D is too by the way his thrusts become faster and erratic. He’s given up all semblance of rhythm, slamming frantically into your arse with all his strength. You moan loudly when you feel one hand wrap around your cock, pumping it fast and hard. It’s all too much: the fingers on your skin, the throbbing heat inside you, 2D’s hair brushing against your neck. You’re not going to last much longer if he keeps this up.

The singer makes a sound like he’s in pain. “Murdoc,” he whispers desperately; he sounds like a dying man who has only one last word to say and picked your name. “I’m so close…”

“Come inside me,” you tell him, surprising yourself. “Come inside me, Stu.”

He does, with a long, drawn-out moan, every muscle in his body as taut as a bowstring. The hand on your cock keeps stroking mercilessly and after a few seconds you come too, spilling all over your stomach and the wall.

You struggle to catch your breath as he slowly pulls out of you. That was easily one of the best orgasms you’d ever had in your lifetime; your whole body feels like a knot that’s just been loosened. Just before your knees buckle and send you crashing face-first into the wall, a lanky arm wraps itself around your torso. A knee comes up between your legs, letting you rest your body weight against it.

2D rests his chin on your shoulder, lifting his other hand to lick his fingers clean of your come. When he’s done, he puts it on the side of your face to cradle your head, bringing it closer so that your foreheads touch.

“Relax, Mudzzie,” he tells you in a faint, exhausted voice. “I got ya.”

You nod tiredly in response, too blissed out to object to the atrocious nickname. He’s got you indeed, with his skinny arms and long legs that look so delicate, but feel so strong and solid around you.

_Let’s give this a try._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, those two fools made PROGRESS. I can't believe how drawn out and dramatic this was, lol. I hope you enjoyed, and I just want to say thank you to all the lovely people who gave me kudos and/or left comments on this fic; you have no idea how much your kind words inspire me. Also, writing about Murdoc as a bottom was definitely a first for me (I prefer him as a top), so hopefully I managed to keep him more or less in character.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Murdoc and 2D enjoy some sweet pillow talk and there's no place like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe I finally got this done! Sorry if I made anyone wait for this, it's like the closer I get to the end of a fic, the harder it is to write it. Many thanks to all of those who read this and left kudos/comments on it, you are all so sweet and I swear your words give me life. :')  
> I'd like to give special thanks to rejectsuperstar for this chapter, since they were kind enough to send me the link to one of 2D's interviews where he shares a very sweet, very 2Doc moment. ^^ I did my best to incorporate it in this fic, because it's such a cute scene and I think it fits with my portrayal of Murdoc. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! :3

 

You wake up from the sound of the rain hitting the window.

The curtains are only half closed and the room is bathed in light --soft and gray, the kind that makes everything appear more still than it is, the sunlight of rainy days.

You don't need to turn over to know that Murdoc is still asleep, breathing quietly against your neck. He's got one arm draped over you, hand curled possessively on your chest in a strange, claw-like gesture. Your legs are tangled with his in an oddly intricate embrace that guarantees you'll get a painful cramp as soon as you try to move them. You smile instinctively and lace your fingers through his.

Your mind is still caught in a sleepy haze and you wonder briefly if it's possible to hold feet with someone the same way you can hold hands --after all, Murdoc had always said that your toes were apishly long. After a few seconds of wiggling them unsuccessfully, you yawn and decide that that's an enterprise for another day. 

You lean into Murdoc's embrace and close your eyes, letting your thoughts drift idly through your brain.The thing about extensive brain damage was that you tended to forget a lot of things, but that didn't mean you stopped remembering anything that happened to you. Thank God you didn't have that... that anterograde amnesia or whatever it was the doctors said they'd been testing you for after the car accident.

Sure, you missed a couple things here and there --small things like knowing how to tie your shoelaces, or your own birthday. But the events you considered to be big or impactful in some way tended to stick with you, one way or another. You remember the first time you ever spoke to Murdoc. You remember meeting Russ, and opening a mysterious Fedex crate to be greeted with the sight of a tiny Japanese girl curled up in a ball.

Other things you forgot about came back to you in dreams, like boomerangs. It was like your brain knew they were important and wanted to remind you of them in case you lost track of them. You weren't sure what the doctors would say about that, but you quite liked the idea that no matter how banged up it was, your brain was still trying to help you out --like a good mate handing you little memos and unexpected reminders because you were too hopeless to remember them yourself. From this perspective, your brain reminded you a lot of Murdoc himself. 

Last night had given you yet another one of those memories packaged as dreams. You're not sure why, because you feel pretty confident that no matter how much stupider you got, you'd never forget _that_ memory. But it's not like you mind; in fact, you wouldn't mind reliving it every night from now on. 

Your dream had taken you four --four and a half, maybe-- months ago, back when the band had only recently moved into Spirit House and you were still a mess of insecurity and sexual frustration around Murdoc. 

The two of you had been standing at the kitchen sink, facing an overwhelmingly high pile of greasy dishes. Russ had thrown one of his hissy fits, as Murdoc called them, pointing out that he'd been the sole reason the house hadn't already been crumbling under the weight of unwashed dishes. Noodle had been out, luckily for her, so it fell to the two of you to take care of it. Murdoc had groaned and complained and all but stomped his foot like a child, but the drummer had been unmovable. 

"I'm puttin' my foot down," he'd snapped at the two of you in his best dad voice. "If we're all gonna live in the same house, y'all gotta do your part. I ain't gonna put up with no human ears on my toast again, ya dig?" 

And that's how you'd found yourselves with your sleeves rolled up to your elbows, scrubbing desperately at plates still covered with cold, soggy remnants of food. Murdoc looked at you in silent concern for a few seconds, before deciding that he'd do the washing and you could take care of drying the dishes. He'd said it was just an extra precaution to ensure that you wouldn't break anything, but the gesture had been thoughtful regardless and made you feel all warm and fuzzy. 

He’d reached over to give you a plate and your hands had brushed together --a lingering touch that lasted just long enough to make your few brain cells short-circuit. You'd loosened your grip without thinking, and Murdoc cursed under his breath when the plate slipped and crashed into pieces in the sink.

A fresh wave of anxiety and humiliation had washed over you. “Shit, Muds, ‘m sorry, I’ll clean it up…”

“Don’t bother. You’ll only cut yerself on a piece o’ glass.” Murdoc’s tone had been clipped and your stomach had churned in worry that you’d made him mad --but then his expression had softened. “Are you alright? You’ve been even more of a klutz than usual today.”

He’d held your gaze with a look of genuine concern in his eyes. It was a look you couldn’t help but shy away from --those eyes were too piercing, too observant and clever to not see past your façade. _Oh god, he knows,_ your inner voice had moaned in misery. _He knows nothing,_ another voice had snapped back. _And he’ll know nothing as long as you can keep it together._

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine. Jus’ got a bit of a headache, s’all,” you’d lied.

He’d nodded understandingly, apparently taking you at your word --but those eyes had still been fixed on you, staring right through you. It’d felt like he somehow knew you weren’t being honest with him. You’d been reminded of all the times you found him shooting glances at you the past few weeks, discreet looks that were often unnervingly intent. Whether you were hunched over on the sofa watching telly, or letting your fingers drift lazily on your keyboard, you’d find Murdoc looking at you, his dark eye filled with something you could only call expectancy --like he was silently asking a question that only you could answer.

The problem was, you had no idea how to reply. You didn’t even know what the question was, so how on earth were you supposed to answer it? 

Murdoc had carried on washing the dishes in silence. You’d stood there for a while, twiddling your fingers nervously, being about as useful as a potted plant. The bassist had ended up taking pity on you. “Go lie down and get some rest, Dents,” he’d told you without looking up from the sink. “I’ll take care o’ the rest here.”

“Umm, are you sure? Russ said it was my turn to do the dishes today, so…”

“Yes, I’m sure, 2D,” he’d interrupted you. He hadn’t sounded mad, though. “Russ will understand. I’ll bring you yer pills an’ some water when I’m done.”

You’d thanked him timidly and gratefully retreated to your room. Your head felt fine --or at least as fine as it got, any way-- but the quiet, peaceful atmosphere of your room had been a welcome change. It wasn’t that you’d gotten any more nervous or panicky around Murdoc. It was just that you felt a completely new, different kind of nervous now. In a twisted way, it was almost easier when all you had to worry about was him getting mad and punching or yelling at you.

Now, all Murdoc had to do was be in the same room as you and you’d get all jumpy and awkward. Every time he happened to touch you --accidentally, of course-- little sparks would start dancing in your veins, fizzing like bubbles in a can of pop, until you felt like they would burst out from under your skin. Every time he looked at you, something would twist painfully --but not altogether unpleasantly-- inside you.

Hanging around Murdoc had become equal parts exhilirating and exhausting. Every minute you spent in his company got you closer to the brink of something --what exactly that _something_ was, you weren’t sure. You were like a moth dancing around a flame, clever enough to know it would burn, but still stupid enough to want to get closer.

You’d laid down on your bed, arms and legs spread out like a starfish. After what felt like hours, there’d been a knock at your door; Murdoc had made his way in, holding a tray with a glass of water, a handful of brightly colored pain pills and… pizza?

“Thought I’d bring ya some food since ya barely ate today,” he’d explained as he carefully set the tray on your nightstand. “S’ never good to take meds on an empty stomach, y’know.”

That had been news to you. Almost twenty years of gobbling down pain pills like candy and you’d never heard that before --or you’d heard it and forgotten it a long time ago. _Huh._ _Maybe that’s part of the reason why my brain’s so messed up,_ you’d thought, making a mental note to take your medication with food from now on.

“Thanks, Muds,” you’d smiled at him. “I never knew that before. I’ll try to remember.”

He’d shrugged, probably knowing that you’d forget anyway. “I’ll remind you,” he’d said.

You’d scooted back on your bed to make some space for him. After a moment of hesitation he’d sat down at the very edge of the mattress, looking like he was ready to up and bolt at any second. “S’ one o’ yer migraines again, isn’t it? How are ya feelin’ now?” he’d asked you.

“A lot better,” you’d replied a bit too fast, feeling guilty for lying and making him worry. “Don’t think s’ a migraine, actually. S’ already going away now.”

You’d meant to reassure Murdoc, but his brow only creased further at your words. “Well if it’s not a migraine… Ya sure ya don't have a fever, D? Yer face looks red.”

 _What the hell am I supposed to tell him now?_ you’d wondered. You didn’t want to let him stay so concerned, but you couldn’t exactly tell him the truth either. _Don’t worry, Muds, I’m not sick. My face is only red because you’re sitting so close to me and I really really want to jump your bones right now._

There’d been no time for you to get your ideas together. Before you knew it, Murdoc had been reaching closer, brushing hair out of your face and laying his hand softly over your forehead. His palm had been rugged and warm against your skin --it radiated so much heat that you’d asked yourself if you shouldn’t have been checking his temperature. _Don’t get used to this_ , you’d warned yourself. _Just savor the moment and don’t do anything stupid._

But it’d felt so good, too good to be true; without even thinking about it, you’d closed your eyes and let out a sigh, melting under Murdoc’s touch.

A few seconds had passed before the Satanist took his hand off, clearing his throat loudly. “You don’t have a fever,” he’d said, carefully avoiding your eyes. “That’s uh… That’s good.”

“Yeah,” you’d replied, a little breathless. A heavy silence had stretched out between the two of you, thickening the atmosphere. Murdoc had awkwardly patted the space next to your hand. “Feel better, Dents. Call for me if ya need anythin’ else.”

He’d gotten up and walked towards the door. Your eyes had landed on his back --lean muscles and strong-looking shoulders, slightly hunched over. You’d thought about all the times you’d seen Murdoc like this, back turned to you as he walked towards something or other --fame, women, men, radio shows-- and away from you, always away from you. You’d tried to think of something to say, anything that would make him stay. _Don’t go, please. Sick people need company, don’t they?_

Instead, you’d grabbed your head in your heads and groaned out in frustration. Apparently, mere words were not enough to describe just how much this man drove you bonkers.

Murdoc had been at your side in an instant. “Hey, you okay there mate?” he’d asked, eyes wide with alarm. He’d reached for the pills on the tray and you’d shaken your head furiously. “Okay, no pills then,” he’d muttered under his breath. “What do you need, 2D? Tell me what you need.”

 _Fuck._ You’d blushed bright red to the roots of your hair. _“Tell me what you need, 2D.”_ You’d heard him speak those exact words in your dream the night before --in a drastically different context.

You’d gotten up and started pacing in the room, grabbing handfuls of hair and pulling until it hurt. “It’s not fair, Murdoc,” you’d blurted out. “Yer not bein’ fair to me right now.”

Murdoc’s face had fallen, and you’d cursed under your breath. That wasn’t what you wanted, not at all.

“What da ya mean, I’m not bein’ fair to you? Look, Dents, if you ya jus’ told me what you need you’d make this a lot easier for both of us…”

“No,” you’d cut him off desperately, voice coming out as a whine. “Tha’s not what I meant. S’ jus’... You bein’ so nice ta me, touchin’ me a-an’ lookin’ at me… You… You can’t jus’....” You’d sighed and huffed, angry at the words for not coming out right. “You can’t jus’ be so nice ta me an’ keep lookin’ at me like that, an’ expect me not ta start _wantin’_ things…”

You’d looked up to see Murdoc staring at you with an undecipherable expression on his face. Just a second too late, it dawned on you how wrongly your words could be interpreted.

“I-I don’t mean that tha’s what _you_ want me ta think,” you’d added hurriedly. “That you have some kind of hidden agenda o’ whatever they call it… S’ probably jus’ me gettin’ the wrong idea an’ bein’ stupid as usual…”

Murdoc had stepped closer to you then; you’d wondered how that single step of his could make the air in the room get thinner. Or maybe your lungs had gotten smaller.

You’d felt like you were watching a car crash in slow motion. There was no way he didn’t know now; Christ, you’d practically told him you’d been pining for him. The disaster you’d been anticipating for weeks had finally happened, and you’d caused it yourself --no surprise there.

“What makes ya think I don’t have a hidden agenda?” he’d asked, his voice so soft and incredibly deep you wanted to wrap yourself in it like a black, velvet blanket. “Sounds ta me like the kind o’ thing I’d do.”

He’d been so close your chests were practically touching. You’d felt your back hit the wall and flattened yourself against it.

“Yeah, but…” you’d licked your lips, and Murdoc’s eyes had glued themselves to your mouth like it was the most entrancing thing he'd ever seen. “Misinterpretin’ everything an’ gettin’ my hopes up for nothin’ sounds like the kind o’ thing I’d do, so…”

Murdoc’s lips had twitched, as if he was trying hard not to smile. “You say I’ve been unfair,” he’d said, stepping even closer. “But you’ve been lookin’ at me, too.”

So he’d noticed. You’d blushed in embarrassment --you would’ve looked away if it hadn’t been for those eyes pinning you down. “‘Course I have. When I see you lookin’ at me... s' hard to look away.”

Murdoc had kissed you then, for the very first time. It’d been passionate and fierce at first; the bassist had effectively taken your breath away, slanting his lips across yours and hungrily devouring your mouth as his hands came up to grab at your hair. He’d slowed down after a few seconds, suddenly unsure, as if he was asking for permission. You’d wrapped your arms tightly around his neck and pulled him closer, until your bodies were flush against each other. You’d moaned and sighed and whimpered into Murdoc’s mouth as he’d bitten down on your lower lip and sucked on your tongue. As he pulled away for air, the bassist had let out a breathless chuckle; his hands had been shaking. You’d smiled and kissed him again, and hadn’t stopped kissing him.

The tray that Murdoc had brought in remained untouched the whole night.

 _And the rest is history_ , you think to yourself with a smile. Well, maybe not "history" --that'd only been four months ago, after all. But so much had changed in the space of one day; the events of your dream feel so far away, and at the same time, incredibly fresh. It's like you fell out of that bed where Murdoc and you were just one night stands for each other --not even fuck buddies, barely more than a mistake made in the heat of the moment-- and into this magical, surreal place where you are _his_ and he is _yours_. 

Slowly, you turn on your side to face the bassist. Murdoc's face looks so peaceful, eyes closed and brow relaxed for once --he looks so much younger without that scowl-- it fills you with awe. You reach out and lay a finger on his forehead, drag it lightly across his skin to trace the angles of his face. You feel like a traveller mapping out the plains and hills of uncharted, but familiar territory. In every crook, in every dip, there's a memory to be found. Warmth radiates from the single spot where your skin comes into contact with his; every time Murdoc exhales (a small puff of air spilling from chapped lips), the blood in your veins thrums with the intensity of one thought: _this is home._

You're barely surprised when the Satanist lets out a tiny chuckle. He grins lazily without opening his eyes, one adorably sharp tooth peeking out from between his lips; it makes you want to plant a kiss on it. 

"Take a picture, will ya," he mutters groggily, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. His hands make their way down your forearms, grab gently at your elbows and tug you forward until you're laying flat against his chest again, face buried in his neck. 

"Thought ya liked me lookin' at you," you reply, voice slightly muffled. 

"Not when I'm sleepin' an' probably droolin' all over the sheets," the bassist grumbles. "Yer not really seein' the Murdoc Niccals in his full glory then, are ya?" 

He puts a finger under your chin, coaxing you to lift your gaze. By the time you do he's already looking at you, eyes still half-lidded and sleepy. His bed hair is a mess, sticking up from his head in random directions. 

The fondness in his eyes draws you in like a magnet and before you know it, you're leaning in for a good morning kiss, running your hands through his messy black locks and rejoicing in the effortless way your lips meld together. This could be a thing now, you realise, good morning and good night kisses with Murdoc; the thought makes you smile into the kiss, and the smile stays etched on your face when you pull away. 

Murdoc's hand is gentle on your cheek, soft despite the rough calluses under his fingertips. His thumb swipes absentmindedly across your lower lip before he tears his gaze away from your mouth to meet your eyes. 

"You were mumblin' an awful lot in yer sleep," he remarks. "What were ya dreamin' bout?" 

"You," you answer truthfully, humming when he digs his fingers through your hair to gently massage your scalp. "Well, us." 

"Yeah?" Your band mate looks at you amusedly. "What about us?" 

"Everythin'. The first time we shagged. The way we've been dancin' around each other for the past years. Jus' all of it." 

"Hmm. Glad to know I'm not the only one." 

"You dream about us too, Muds?!" You stare at him in surprise, and without warning a giggle erupts from your throat. The bassist rolls his eyes and tries to turn away, but it's useless. Now that he's awoken your curiosity, you can't be stopped; you latch onto him like a leech, poking and prodding at his cheek until he swats your hand away. "What kinda stuff d'ya dream about?" 

He lets out an aggravated groan, apparently accepting the fact that you're not going to give up until he gives you what you want. He rubs tiredly at his eyes, sighing like you've just asked him to undertake a terribly arduous and boring task. "Mostly all the times I acted stupid around you. Like when I yelled at you for walkin' around Kong in a towel after comin' out o' the shower. Or when you brought a bird home an' I'd try to chase her away by tellin' her ridiculous shit about you. Or when I got drunk an' threw a bottle at yer head for bein' too pretty. Or that one time I got really drunk after a show an' dragged you to the Winnie to tell you all about my life story."

Your eyes widen and you feel your jaw drop. You probably look more than a little stupid, gaping at him like a fish, but you're too shocked to care. “You actually remember that?”

He shoots you a curious glance. Your brain goes blank and fuzzy for a second as you take in his slightly mussed hair, those unfathomable eyes, his profile sharply outlined by the light peeking in from the window. “‘Course I remember. Why do ya sound so surprised?”

“...I dunno. I guess I jus’ assumed you were too drunk to remember what happened the mornin’ after. I think that was the drunkest I’ve ever seen ya, Murdoc.”

He chuckles at that. “Ah, I’ve had worse days. That’d been one hell of a tour, though. Felt like I needed somethin’ ta take the edge off, y’know?”

You nod solemnly, because of course you know. Being in a world famous band isn’t easy, and you’ve been by his side the whole time --often just close enough to be his punching bag when he needed to release stress. You’ve got more than a couple bad memories from those days, but mostly good ones. Murdoc's mind is always leaps and bounds ahead of you and it’s hard to keep up. You’re grateful there’s at least one thing admist all his experiences that you can understand and relate to.

You fall back into a comfortable silence, his arm warm around your shoulders and his heartbeat quiet under your ear. You could easily fall back asleep like this, curled up against each other: it’s incredibly tempting but a thought still nags at you from the back of your head, not willing to go away now that the subject has been brought up.

“Why didn’t ya call me afterwards, then? If you remembered everythin’?” you blurt out the words exactly as they popped up in your mind. It occurs to you --less than half a second later-- that you should probably have worded it differently, been a little less blunt.

Murdoc looks a bit embarrassed, like he knew you'd ask that question but was still hoping that you wouldn't. He scratches the back of his head and doesn't meet your eyes when he answers. “I panicked. Woke up the next mornin’ an’ jus’ spent a couple hours freakin’ out about what I’d done.” You picture the bassist pacing in his trailer, ranting and pulling out his hair like an anxious old man, and you laugh at how silly it seems. But then you think about how scared Murdoc must’ve felt, and you feel a pang. You reach for his hand and softly kiss his knuckles, as an apology. “I thought I’d made a complete fool out o’ myself in front of ya. I, uh… I told ya a lot o’ pretty personal stuff, didn’t I?”

He’d all but poured his heart out to you, about his shitty life, about how he felt like he’d never be good enough, about his dad. You remember it all; it had stuck with you for weeks afterwards, making your stomach churn at night. The things Murdoc had gone through... some of them, you couldn’t even have imagined in your darkest nightmares. You look at him and nod again, patiently waiting for him to go on.

“I thought the best thing to do was pretend like it never happened. I hoped you’d forgotten, too. I was so sure that you’d figured out that I fancied you, an’ you were disgusted or creeped out by it.”

“...Actually, I didn’t have a clue,” you admit with a sheepish smile. “I thought you were so drunk you couldn’t see straight. But I didn’t mind. I’d always wondered exactly how you spent yer nights with those groupies you brought back to yer trailer.”

Murdoc lets out a laugh --more like a cackle, actually-- and it’s loud and genuine and warms you like a cup of cocoa. “Well now ya know, bluebird,” he answers with a smirk. “I bring ‘em into the Winnebago an’ sweep ‘em off their feet with fresh strawberries an’ sad stories about my daddy issues.”

“The strawberries were good,” you muse out loud.

Slipping out from underneath Murdoc’s arm, you sit up on top of him and let the sheet slip off your naked shoulder, back arched in a mock glamour pose.

“So, um...", you lick your bottom lip and bite into it lightly, your heart swelling when the bassist's eyes darken visibly. "Do you make all yer fans wait ten more years before you finally shag ‘em?” you ask, batting your eyelashes for good measure.

His smile morphs into a predatory grin, and before you have time to say anything else he leaps at you. You make a sound halfway between a yelp and a laugh when he rips the sheet off your shoulders and stretches it above your heads, like a small, cozy tent just for the two of you.

“Only the gorgeous ones with weird-colored hair and perfect arses,” he answers in a low, quiet rumble. His hands come up to cup your face, lightly pinching your cheeks as if you were a chubby kid. It makes you giggle and wrinkle your nose. “Only the ones that still shine as bright in my eyes an’ my mind after more than a decade.”

Your breath catches in your throat when he kisses you. No matter how many times he does it, it’s like you still need to prepare yourself every time: _Murdoc Niccals is kissing me. Murdoc Niccals is kissing me because he wants to._ “So far, yer the only one who fits the description, love,” he adds after he pulls back, leaning his forehead against yours.

You grin at him again, offhandedly thinking that you've smiled more in the past few hours than you have in the last seven years. At this rate, you'll get a cramp in your cheek muscles. "Yer tellin' me I'm the one who managed to nail down _the_ Murdoc Niccals? I feel honoured, mate." 

"As you should," he retorts easily, but there's something forced in his shit-eating grin. His eyes are serious despite his light-hearted tone. "I've got to tell you I'm not exactly wife material, though. I was too busy enjoyin' my youth, being wild an' naughty; never learned how to be a good girl. There'll be no white picket fences an' homemade pot roast for you now that yer stuck with me, m' afraid." 

"I reckon most blokes wouldn't complain 'bout bein' tied down to a naughty girl," you smirk at him, before giving him a long, deep kiss. You stare into his eyes when you pull away, holding his face in your hands.

You want to make sure this message gets across to him; you won't have him beating himself up over what he thinks you want --what he knows he can't offer you. "I know yer not the domestic type, Muds," you say. "I don't think I am, either. We wouldn't be rock stars if we were, would we? I don't mind. S' not like we need to follow any recipe o' whatever to be happy. We'll do it our own way, yeah?" 

"I sure hope there's no recipe for happiness," Murdoc says mournfully. "I've always been awful at cooking."

“It doesn’t matter if yer an awful cook, Murdoc. I don’t care ‘bout fancy meals, or bloody strawberries, an’ neither do Noodle an’ Russ. We can jus’ eat takeout every day. What matters is you makin’ an effort, tryin’ to take care of us an’ all that. It made me… it made all of us real happy, y’know.”

“So ya were happy to see me make an arse of myself tryin’ to act domestic, huh?” he asks, but his tone is playful and you can hear a smirk in his voice.

“I figured you must care about us an awful lot, if you were willin’ to be ridiculous for us,” you reply. You think back about your conversation with Russell on the steps of the abandoned house. “Russ was really surprised,” you remark pensively. “I bet he still thinks somethin’ extraordinary happened to you an’ made you start actin’ different.”

Murdoc is silent for a few seconds, looking like he’s thinking his answer through. “Nothin’ really happened to me,” he finally says. “At least, nothin’ that would’ve caused a change o’ heart or anythin’ like that.” He shrugs. “I guess there’s no magical formula to turn an arsehole into a good man; no great secret to morals. Only love.”

The words echo inside you like a long-forgotten prophetic message from ages ago. It strikes you once again: how smart Murdoc is, how so much of what he knows is far too complex for you to ever hope to understand. You whistle admiringly at him. “Tha’s beautiful, mate,” you comment. “Sounds a bit sappy, though.”

He chuckles under his breath, eyes downcast. You follow his gaze and see that he’s staring at your joined hands, fingers laced together under the blankets.

“That’s Percy Bysshe Shelley, love. Great poet, an’ a wiser man than I’ll ever be.” There's a strange, far-away look in his eyes for a moment; then he grins to himself. “You're right, though. He was a bit of a sap.”

You nod solemnly, putting on your best _I understand what's going on, no really, I do_  face. Your efforts are ruined by the embarrassingly loud growl that your stomach decides to make at that precise moment. Murdoc smirks and looks like he's about to tease you for it before he's interrupted by an even louder growl from his own belly. You grin toothlessly and laugh like the cheeky brat you are, just to beat him to it. 

"Come on, ya twat," he says. "Let's go get some breakfast."

You dress quickly, rolling your eyes when you catch Murdoc leering not so discreetly at your arse as you pull on your jeans. The joke's on you, though; a second later, he's sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on his shirt, and you find yourself transfixed by the sight of his back, shoulder blades and wiry muscles rolling smoothly under his skin. The shirt is on all too soon, but you don't snap out of it until Murdoc chuckles and playfully flicks your nose. "Quit droolin', love," he tells you. "There'll be plenty o' time to enjoy the view later." 

Your two band mates are already in the living room when you get there. Noodle is sprawled on the couch, playing a game on her phone. She looks mildly interested, at best --nothing had ever really replaced the thrill of Tamagotchis for her. 

“I see our two sleeping beauties are finally up,” she remarks, looking up at you with a smirk. “Had a good night, I bet?”

You smile widely and nod, because yes, that was a good night indeed. Murdoc sends the girl a half-hearted glare and mumbles noncomitally under his breath.

Russ is sitting in the old leather armchair --the one that he’d designated as his chair from the day you’d moved in-- next to the couch, reading today’s newspaper. “Good mornin’, Russ,” you greet him.

The drummer shakes his head in response. “It’s almost four in the afternoon, 2D,” he points out.

“The first half-hour after a man wakes up is always morning, Russ”, Murdoc declares gruffly. “And that’s true no matter what time o’ the day it is, mind you.” He reaches up to open the cabinets, cursing when he finds them empty. “Could’ve sworn there was a can of beans or two left in there…”

“We ordered Chinese food for lunch,” Noodle tells him. “There’s leftovers and beer in the fridge.”

Your stomach rumbles in agreement. While Murdoc microwaves two plates of fried noodles, you get two beers from the fridge and hand one to Noodle.

“S’ for you,” you reply in answer to the questioning look she gives you. You feel yourself flush from embarrassment and lower your voice. “Sorry if we, uh.. kept you up las’ night. An’ the nights before.”

The young woman raises an eyebrow, seeming more amused than anything else. “You’re lucky I have good earbuds,” she says, good-naturedly accepting the beer.

You smile, letting out a breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding. Russ isn’t the only one who’s found himself caught up in the misunderstanding between Murdoc and you. You’re relieved that Noodle doesn’t seem to hold a grudge about it; if anything, she seems genuinely happy for the two of you.

A fresh wave of affection for her washes through you. You ruffle her hair and the sight of her lopsided grin sends you years back, reminding you of when she’d been just a tiny little girl, laughing and running around all day with that goofy headset on.

Murdoc and you get settled on the couch and start wolfing down your food. The rain is still pouring down outside, hitting the windows with a sound like that of millions of little plastic bullets. None of you seem intent on leaving the house, and you’re grateful for that: today seems like a perfect day to stay in and enjoy a quiet evening. The conversation flows easily but you don’t take much part in it, content to enjoy the presence of Murdoc next to you, smiling widely like a doofus every time your knees brush together.

Eventually, the conversation lands on the one topic that always comes up, inevitably, whenever the four of you hang out together: music. Noodle mentions something about the Beastie Boys; Murdoc brings up Black Sabbath; and in a matter of seconds the two are caught in a heated debate about the respective assets of the two bands. As it often happens, Russ and you find yourselves turning your heads between them like two people following a ping pong match. The drummer glances up from his newspaper from time to time to defend something Noodle said. You occasionally offer a timid input, usually in Murdoc’s favor (it’s only fair if Russ is on Noodle’s side, you tell yourself, of course you’re not doing it just because he’s your boyfriend).

Then Murdoc’s hand slips over yours, and it becomes kind of hard to focus on anything else.

No one brings it up, but you can’t stop thinking about the fact that you’re holding hands, here, in public --well, just in front of the band, but still. It’s a discreet token of affection, a silent proof of your bond ( _Murdoc Niccals is your boyfriend now_ , the voice tells you again, and your heart flutters). You feel as giddy as a schoolboy who just got his first girlfriend. It’s probably best that you don’t speak much; you’d be unable to shut up about the fact that you and Murdoc are a couple now, an official bloody couple. To be honest, you haven’t been paying attention to a word of what Noodle’s saying --and you’re too full of happiness to feel more than a tiny bit guilty for it.

From the old leather chair he’s sitting in, Russel grunts out a response to the young guitarist and flips a page in his newspaper. His eye glances towards you and Murdoc and land briefly on your joined hands. The corner of his lips twitches in the beginnings of a smile and you just know that he’s sending you a mental thumbs up.

Your grin gets impossibly wider. With a remarkable amount of self-control, you manage not to jump up and down and start shouting _yes, yes, we’re together now! look at our hands, just look at them! there’s your proof!_

Instead, you simply press Murdoc’s hand a bit tighter: the difference would be imperceptible, if it weren’t for that rush of added warmth, the brush of his palm against yours that makes your spine tingle. You feel yourself get redder than a ripe tomato when Murdoc presses back in response. He keeps debating with Noodle about the superiority of Black Sabbath over the Beastie Boys, without smiling or even looking at you, but you don’t need him to. It’s like a secret, incredibly intimate language that only the two of you share. Although on the outside, Murdoc has his trademark expression of annoyance and frustration, you know that somewhere inside him he’s wearing a smile that matches the one on your lips.

It might take a while before he feels comfortable calling you pet names in public, but you’re okay with that. This right now, the two of you holding hands, skin pressed so close that your hearts might as well be beating as one in your palms, this is enough. _I love you,_ you tell him with a small contraction of your fingers. _My darling songbird,_ he replies by brushing his thumb against the back of your hand.

Eventually Russ lets out a long-suffering groan and effectively puts an end to the pointless debate between Murdoc and Noodle. "I didn't go out tonight cause I wanted to get some peace and quiet for once," he complains. "I ain't stayin' in just to listen to the two of you fight over who's got better taste in music." 

"Well what else is there ta do in this house, anyway?" Murdoc barks back, sounding genuinely at a loss. 

"I found some old cassette tapes the other day," Noodle pipes up, reaching over behind the sofa and pulling out a large cardboard box. She flips through the tapes, listing names off as she goes. "Let's see... _Citizen Kane... Finding Nemo... Marley and Me_. Ooh, let's watch that one!"

You nod in agreement --it's a good film-- but Murdoc groans next to you. "Come on, _Marley and Me_?" he asks the guitarist. "Ya really wanna watch somethin' that corny?"

Noodle stands her ground, holding the cassette defiantly. "2D wants to watch it too," she argues. "Russ, what about you?"

The drummer puts down his newspaper and shrugs. "Sure," he says peaceably, always accommodating whenever it comes to Noodle. "I'm in the mood for some _Marley and Me_."

The young woman grins victoriously, while Murdoc slumps deeper in the couch and grumbles under his breath.

Noodle goes to put the tape in and Russ chuckles at the bassist's pouty expression. "Give up the act, man," he tells him, playfully swatting him on the shoulder. "We all know the only reason you don't wanna watch that movie is cause the dog dies at the end."

Murdoc crosses his arms over his chest and you can't help but smile at the look in his eyes: Russ is right and he knows it. Trying to be a good boyfriend, you scoot closer to the Satanist and lean your head on his shoulder, your heart skipping a beat when you feel him relax against you.

"Murdoc is a big ol' softie," Noodle teases in a sing-song voice.

"Yep, he is," you agree, and without thinking you lean in and plant a big, loud smooch on the bassist's cheek. "He's _my_ big ol' softie."

There's a sudden moment of silence as you realise what you just did. Both Russ and Noodle look a bit taken aback. Murdoc is as still as a statue; slowly, and to your surprise, his face becomes redder than a candied cherry.

The reactions of everyone are instantaneous. Noodle immediately erupts into uncharacteristic giggles, awwing and cooing at the bright red Satanist. Russ is even less subtle about it if that's possible: he laughs and laughs and almost chokes on his own loud guffaws. "Murdoc, you okay, man?" he asks once he's calmed down, wiping a tear from his eye. "You need us to throw a bucket of cold water over you or what?"

Murdoc still hasn't moved; the only sign that he's even alive is his breathing and his flushed face. He's blinking quite a lot, too.

Noodle sits on the couch next to him and gingerly pokes his cheek. "I think you broke him, 2D," she says.

You laugh embarrassedly at that, starting to feel slightly worried for your boyfriend's sanity. You nudge his shoulder with yours. "Are you okay, Muds?" you ask shyly.

This seems to make him snap out of it. He exhales loudly and buries his face in his hands, still glowing like a traffic light. "For Satan's sake, D," he says after a while. "Next time give me a warnin' first or somethin', yeah?"

You gulp and nod. It's your turn to blush now. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze tightly, momentarily forgetting your qualms about PDA. He's just so cute.

Everything goes relatively smoothly, until the part where Marley gets sick. Then Murdoc starts squirming uncomfortably next to you, shifting and fidgeting in his seat no matter how much you rub his arm to comfort him. Before you know it he's standing up and trying to turn the television off; Noodle is adamant about finishing the film and lectures Murdoc on how he really needs to get over his hangup about animals dying in films. They bicker about it for no more than a few minutes before Russ barks at both of them to shut up and let him watch the movie in peace.

You remain silent throughout it all, grinning like an idiot at nothing in particular. It's nothing really out of the ordinary, the four of you hanging out like this. At the same time, it's everything.

Noodle shoots one last glare at the bassist before huddling back in her nest of blankets. Murdoc huffs and rolls his eyes but he doesn't say anything and sits down on the other side of you.

The movie ends and the credits roll down on the screen. The living room is bathed in the bluish, slightly eerie light of the television. Noodle yawns and stretches, her tiny feet bumping against your much larger ones. Murdoc is sniffling as quietly as possible, tightly holding onto your hand. Russ starts snoring in his armchair, loud and deep like thunder, making the floorboards vibrate ever so softly.

You snuggle into Murdoc's chest and smile, because this --all of this-- is everything you've ever wanted and much, much more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to express my sincerest apologies for the Shelley quote. 0_0 I'm not sure if literature nerd Murdoc is canon compliant, but it is for me and I just had this picture of Murdoc quoting Shelley in my head ever since I started writing this thing, ugh. But I am pretty happy with how this turned out, and I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)


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